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Book 







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THE 


POETICAL WORKS 


OF 


LORD B YRON". 


■ 


ILLUSTRATED. 


/^SToTcoivg^^ 


J •'• ^^FWASW^^ 


PHILADELPHIA: 


J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO., 


1883. 


1 



V 









Contents, 



PAGE 

vii 
1 

15 
28 
50 
6< 



Life ov the At'thor • 
The Giaour; aFragmentof aTurkishTale 
The Bride of Abydos; a Turkish Tale • 
The Corsair; a Tale 
Lara ; a Tale 
The Siege of Corinto 
Parisina 

The Prisoner of Chillon; a Fable 82 

Sonnet on Chillon - - ib. 

Manfred ; a Dramatic Poem - 87 

Cain; a Mystery - -104 

Hours of Idleness ; a Series of Poems, 

Original and Translated - t 129 

On the Death of a Young Lady, Cousin 

to the Author, and very dear to him 1 30 

ToE - - ib. 

To D - - 131 

Epitaph on a Friend • ib. 

A Fragment - - - ib. 

On leaving Newstead Abbey - ib. 

Lines written in " Letters to an Italian 
NunandanEnglishGentleman; by 
J. J. Rousseau: founded on Facts " 132 
Answer to the foregoing, addressed to 

Miss - ib. 

Adrian's Address to his Soul when 

Dying - - - ib. 

Translation from Catullus. AdLesbiam ib. 
Translation of the Epitaph on Virgil 

and Tibullus, by DomitiusMarsus 133 
Imitation of Tibullus. " Sulpicia ad Ce- 

rinthum" - - ib- 

Translation from Catullus. " Lugete, 

Veneres, Cupidinesque," &c - ib. 
Imitation from Catullus. To Ellen ib. 

Translation from Horace. "Justum 

et tenacem," &c. • - ib. 

From Anacreon • • ib. 

From Anacreon - - 134 

From the Prometheus Vinctus of 

^Eschylus - - ib. 

To Emma «• ib. 



To M. S. O. . . 

To Caroline 

To the Same 

To the Same 

Stanzas to a Laay, with the Powns of 

Camoens 
The First Kiss of Love 
On a Change of Masters at a great 

Public School . . 

To the Duke of Dorset 
Fragment, written shortly after toe Mar- 
riage of Miss Chaworth - 
Granta. A Medley 
On a distant View of the Village and 

School of Harrow on the Hill - 140 

To M 

To Woman 
To M. S. G. 

To Mary, on receiving her Picture 
ToLesbia 

Lines addressed to a young Lady, who 
was alarmed at" the Sound of a 
Bullet hissing near her 
Love's last Adieu 
Damaetas 
To Marion 

To a Lady who presented to the Author a 
Lock of Hair braided with his Own 
Oscar of Alva. A Tale 
The Episode of Nisus and Euryalus - 148 
Translation from the Medea of Euri- 
pides 
Thoughts suggested by a College Exa- 
mination -.. 
To a Beautiful Quaker 
The Cornelian - 
AnOccasionalPrologue, to "The Wheel 

of Fortune ' 
On the Death of Mr. Fox 
The Tear 

Reply to some Verses of J. M.B. Pigot, 
Esq. on the Cruelty of his Mistress 



io. 
136 

ib. 

137 

ib. 

ib. 
ib. 

139 

ib. 



141 
ib 
ib 
ib 

142 



ib. 
143 

ib. 
144 

14o 



152 

153 
154 

ib. 

155 

ib. 
156 



CONTENTS. 



To the sighing Strephon 
To Eliza 
Lachin y Gair 
To Romance - 

Answer to some elegant Verses sent by 
a Friend to the Author, complain- 
ing that one of his Descriptions 
was rather too warmly drawn 
Elegy on Nevvstead Abbey 
Childish Recollections 
Answer to a beautiful Poem, entitled 

" The Common Lot " 
To a Lady who presented the Author 
with a Velvet Band which bound 
her Tresses 
Remembrance - 
\ Lines addressed to the Rev. J. T. 
Becher, on his advising the Au- 
thor to mix more with Society 
The Death of Calmar and Orla. An 
Imitation of Macpherson'sOssian 
L'Amitie c'est 1' Amour sans Ailes 
The Prayer of Nature 
To Edward Noel Long, Esq. - 
Oh ! had my fate been joined with thine 
I would I were a careless Child ! 
When I roved a Young Highlander - 
To George, Earl Delaware 
To the Earl of Clare 
Lines written beneath an Elm in the 
Churchyard of Harrow 
English Bards and Scotch Reviewers ; 

a Satire - 
Hebrew Melodies 
She walks in Beauty 
The Harp the Monarch Minstrel swept 
If that high World 
The wild Gazelle 
Oh ! weep for those 
On Jordan's Banks • • 

Jeptha's Daughter 

Oh! snatch'd away in Beauty's Bloom 
My Soul is dark 
I saw thee weep 
Thy days are done - 
Song of Saul before his last Battle - 
Saul 

" All is vanity, saith the Preacher " 
When coldness wraps this suffering 

Clay 
Vision of Belshazzar- 
Sun of the Sleepless 
Were my Bosom as false as thou 

deem'st it to be 
Herod's Lament for Mariamne - 



PAGE 

157 

ib. 
158 
ib. 



159 

ib. 

161 

166 



ib. 
167 



ib. 

ib. 
169 
170 
171 

ib. 

ib. 
173 
174 

ib. 

176 

177 

190 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
191 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
192 

ib. 

ib. 

ib. 
193 

ib. 

ib. 
194 

ib. 

ib. 
ib. 



On the Day of the Destruction of 

Jerusalem by Titus - 
By the Rivers of Babylon we sat 

down and wept - 
The Destruction of Sennacherib 
A spirit pass'd before me. From Job 
Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte 
The Curse of Minerva 
The Dream ... 
Lament of Tasso ... 
Vision of Judgment 
Domestic Pieces : 1816 
Fare thee Well 

A Sketch ... 

Stanzas to Augusta. " When all 

around grew drear and dark " 
Stanzas to Augusta. " Though the 

Day of my Destiny's over " 
Epistle to Augusta. "My Sister! 

my sweet Sister ! if a name " 
Lines on hearing that Lady Byron 

was ill 
Occasional Pieces : — 

Farewell ! if ever fondest Prayer 

Bright be the Place of thy Soul- 

When we Two parted 

To a Youthful Friend 

Lines inscribed upon a Cup formed 

from a Skull 
Well ! thou art happy 
Inscription on the Monument of a 

Newfoundland Dog - 
To a Lady, on being asked my rea- 
son for quitting England in the 

Spring 
Remind me not, remind me not 
There was a Time, I need not name 
And wilt thou weep when I am low ? 
Fill the Goblet again. A Song 
Stanzas to a Lady, on leaving England 
To Florence 

Stanzas composed during a Thunder- 
storm - 
Stanzas written in passing the Ara- 

bracian Gulf - 
Stanzas. " Do we not hear that youth 

is happiness — " 
Ode. " Oh ! shame to thee, land of 

the Gaul ! 
Madame Lavalette 
Farewell to England - 
To my Daughter, on the morning of 

her birth - 
Ode to the Island of St. Helena 
To the Lily of France 



195 

ib. 

ib. 
196 
197 
199 
203 
206 
209 
222 

ib. 
223 

224 

ib 

225 

226 

228 
ib. 
ib- 
ib. 

229 
230 

ib. 



ib. 
231 

ib. 

ib 
232 

ib. 
233 

ib. 

234 

235 

ib. 
236 

ib. 

230 
240 
341 



CONTENTS. 



PAOE 

241 

242 

ib. 

243 

ib. 



To Jessy ... 

Lines written for a friend 

Sonnet - 

The spell is broke, the charm is flown 

Written after Swimming from Sestos 

to Abydos - 
Lines written in the Travellers' book 

at Orchomenus - 
Maid of Athens, ere we part 
Faint Heart never won Fair Lady 
There "s Fascination in thy Glowing 

Eye - 
Lines written beneath a Picture 
Translation of the famous Greek War 
Song, " Sons of the Greeks, arise" 
Translation of the Romaic Song, " I 

enter thy garden of roses " 
On Parting 
Sonnet - 
Ode to the Past 
To Time - 
To Thyrza - 
Away, away, ye notes of woe - 
One Struggle more, and I am free • 
Euthanasia 

And thou art dead, as young as fair - 
Lines written on a Blank Leaf of the 

" Pleasures of Memory." 
Address, spoken at the Opening of 

Drury Lane Theatre 
Parenthetical Address 
Sonnet - 

Remember thee ! remember thee ! 
To Time - 

Translation of a Romaic Love Song 
Thou art not False, but thou art 

Fickle - - - 252 

On being asked what was the " Origin 

of Love " - ib. 

Remember him whom passion V> power ib. 
If sometimes in the haunts of men 253 
On a Cornelian heart rhioh was 

broken - - - ib. 

From the French - - ib. 

Lines to a Lady Weeping - ib. 

The Chwn I gave - ib. 



Ll.*£ or THE AlJTHOB 

Childe Harold 
Don Juan 
Notes 



ib. 
ib. 

ib. / 

244 

ib. 

ib. 

ib 

245 

ib. 

ib. 
246 

ib. 

ib. 
247 

ib. 
248 

249 

ib. 
250 

ib. 

ib. 
251 

ib. 



PAGE 

Sonnet, to Genevra - - 254 

Sonnet, to the Same . - Ib. 

From the Portuguese - ib. 

Sonnet - - ib. 

The Spirit of Solitude - - ; b. 

To L - - - 255 

We live to learn, yet slowly learn to 

live - - - ib. 

To F . - - ib. 

A Tear - - - 256 
A Line or two in French — Friendship ib. 

To Miss Emma L - ib. 

Sweet Stars of Clear and Cloudless 

Night ib 

Canzone - - ib. 

Condolatory Address- - 257 

Antitheses - - ib 

An Imitation - - ib. 
Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir 

Peter Parker, Bart. - 258 
Stanzas for Music. " There's not a 

joy the world can give," &c. - ib. 
Stanzas for Music. " There be none 

of Beauty's daughters " . 259 

Fame and Fortune - - ib. 

Ode from the French - ib. 

From the French - - 260 
On the Star of " The Legion of 

Honour " - - - ib. 

Napoleon's Farewell - - 261 

An Epitaph - • ib. 

Darkness - - • ib. 

Churchill's Grave - - 26 c <? 

Prometheus - - 263 

A Fragment - ib. 

Sonnet to Lake Leman - 264 

Lines inscribed in a Lady's Album - ib. 
Fragment of a Paraphrase of Ps. exxxvii. ib. 



Life 

Warm as the Cloudless Summer Mora 

Ah ! Triumph Sorrow 
Attributed Pieces:— 

Inez de Castro - 

Fragments of an incomplete Poem 
Monody on the Death of Sheridan 



PAGE 

7 
377 
8)6 
ill 



ib. 

265 

ib. 

266 
268 
275 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



In presenting to the public a biography of so 
distinguished an individual as the subject of 
the present memoir — a subject already so ably 
illustrated by such men as Hobhouse, Scott, 
BuKver, Moore — the writer has before him a 
task of no ordinary difficulty ; yet, though in 
the main agreeing with these eminent author- 
ities, there are shades of colouring, hitherto 
lost sight of, which present in a more favour- 
able view many of those passages in the life 
of the immortal author of " Childe Harold," 
which have been tortured by the withering 
tongue of slander — prompted by political pre- 
judice, religious bigotry, and mawworm mo- 
rality — into blots upon his proud escutcheon, 
into stigmas upon his fair fame. 

His father, Captain Byron, who appears to 
have been of extremely spendthrift and im- 
provident habits, having carried off to the 
Continent the wife of Lord Carmarthen, on 
the latter obtaining a divorce, married her. 
Of this union one daughter only was the issue, 
the Hon. Augusta Byron, afterwards Mrs. 
Colonel Leigh. On the death of his first wife 
in 1784, Captain Byron contracted a marriage, 
in the following year, with Miss Catherine 
Gordon, only daughter and heiress of George 
Gordon, Esq., of Gight, a descendant of the 
third son of the Earl of Huntley, by the 
daughter of James I. Shortly after their mar- 
riage, which took piace at Bath, Captain 
Byron and his lady removed to their estate 
in Scotland, when his creditors becoming 
clamorous, not only her ready money (i?3,000), 
bank shares, Salmon fisheries on the Dee, the 
farm of Monkshill, &c. were sacrificed to meet 
their claims, but a sum of i?8,000, raised by 
mortgage on the estate of Gight. In the 
summer of 1786, she and her husband left 
Scotland to proceed to France, and in the 
following year the fee-simple of the estate itsel. 
was sold "to Lord Hadd~, for ^'17,850, the 
whole of which was applied to the payment 
of Captain Byron's debts, with the exception 
of a small sum vested in trustees for the usd 
of Mrs. Byron, who thus found herself, within 
the short space of two years, reduced f»-*m 
ifRuence to a pittaiu- of £\50 a year. 



From France Mrs. Byron returned t» Eng 
land towards the close of 1787, and on th< 
22nd of January, 1788, gave birth, in Holies- 
street, London, to her first and only child. 
George Gordon Byron, — the prefix of Gordon 
being added in compliance with a condition 
imposed by will on whosoever should become 
husband of the heiress of Gight. At the bap- 
tism of the child, the Duke of Gordon and 
Colonel Duff of Fetteresso stood sponsors. 

In person Mrs. Byron was lowsi/.ed and 
corpulent, provincially bred, of very plain 
manners and education, with apparently little 
or no sense of religion, though possessing an 
abundant stock of weak and vulgar supersti- 
tion, — a woman whose violent passions her 
husband's almost incredible ill-usage seems to 
have so worked upon as to shatter her reason, 
and, indeed, distort even her maternal feelings: 
for we find her, in one of her fits of passion, 
upbraiding her child with being " a lame 
brat." Such was the parent to whose un 
aided care a youth, precocious in all his in- 
stincts, was abandoned during those years in 
which the education of the heart makes such 
rapid and irrevocable strides, even when the 
mental faculties are dull — a circumstance 
deeply to be weighed by those anxious to judge 
with candour the personal history of her son. 

By an accident which, it is said, occurred 
at his birth, one of his feet was twisted out ot 
its natural position, and this defect (chiefly 
from the contrivances employed to remedy it) 
was a source of much pain and inconvenience 
to him during his early years; the expedients, 
however, subsequently adopted, under the 
direction of the celebrated John Hunter, were 
eventually so far successful as to enable him 
to draw on a boot. It is a singular coincidence 
that this deformity was a characteristic of thrre 
of his most distinguished cotemporaries — Si. 
Walter Scott, Marshal Soult, and Prince Tal 
leyrand. 

When not quite five years of age, young 
Byron was sent to a day-school at Aberdeen 
evidently less with a view to his advance in 
learning (the terms being only a guinea a yoar] 
than for the purpose of keeping him quiet itjjd 



viii 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON 



training him to scholastic discipline. Having 
attended this school for a twelvemonth, he was 
then removed to that of a clergyman named 
Ross, with whom he made considerable pro- 
gress ; and was subsequently placed under 
rhe private tutorship of a young man named 
Paterson, a rigid Presbyterian and distin- 
guished scholar, with whom he commenced 
Latin and continued to read until he was sent 
to the Grammar-school at Aberdeen, where he 
remained until recalled to England by the 
death of his grand-uncle, the fifth Lord Byron, 
at Newstead Abbey, May 19, 1798. 

The general impression retained of him by 
his surviving class-fellows at the Grammar- 
school is, that he was a lively, warmhearted, 
and high-spirited boy — passionate and resent- 
ful, but affectionate and companionable with 
his school-fellows — to a remarkable degree 
venturous and fearless, and " always more 
ready to give a blow than take one." He 
was, indeed, much more anxious to distin- 
guish himself by his prowess in sports and 
exercises than by advancement in learning. 
Though ouick when he would apply himself, 
or had any study that pleased him, he was in 
general low in his class, nor seemed ambitious 
of being promoted. 

J- the summer of the year 1796, after an 
attack nf scarlet-fever, he was removed by his 
mother for change of air into the Highlands, 
where they took up their residence at a farm- 
house in the vicinity of Ballater, a favourite 
summer resort for health and gaiety, about 
forty miles up the Dee from Aberdeen, and 
within a pleasant drive of that wild and ro- 
mantic scenery amidst which the dark sum- 
mit of Lachinly gair stood towering before the 
eyes of the future bard ; and the verses in 
which, not many years after, he commemorated 
this sublime spectacle, afford convincing proof 
of the deep impression, young as he was at 
the time, its " frowning glories " made upon 
him. 

In the autumn of 1798, Mrs. Byron and 
her son (now in his eleventh year) attended 
by their faithful domestic. May Gray, left 
Aberdeen for Newstead Abbey, the ancient 
seat of his ancestors. This priory was founded 
about the year 1170, by Henry II., soon after 
the murder of Thomas a Beeket. On the dis- 
solution of the monasteries in the reign of 
Henry VIII., it was added, by a royal grant, 
with the lands pertaining thereto, to the pos- 
sessions of the Byron family. The favourite 
npon whom they were crnfeired was the 



grand-nephew of the gallant soldiei who fought 
by the side of Richmond at Bosworth, and is 
distinguished from the other knights of the 
same Christian name in the family, by the title 
of 'Sir John Byron, the little." 

The small income of Mrs Byron received, 
about this period, a very seasonable addi- 
tion — though on what grounds accorded is 
not stated — of a pension on the civil list of 
.£300 a year. Shortly after her arrival at 
Newstead, she placed her son under the care 
of a person at Nottingham, named Lavender, 
who appears to have been a mere empirical 
pretender, in the hope of having his lameness 
removed ; and that the boy might not lose 
ground in his education, he received lessons 
in Latin from a Mr. Rogers, with whom he 
read parts of Virgil and Cicero, and made con- 
siderable progress. Finding that he derived 
little benefit from the Nottingham practitioner, 
Mrs. Byron, in the summer of 1799, thought 
it right to remove him to London : and he was 
accordingly placed in the academy of Dr. 
Glennie, at Dulwich, and also under the sur- 
gical treatment of Dr. Matthew Baillie, she 
herself at the same time taking a house in 
Sloane Terrace. Having remained nearly two 
years with Dr. Glennie, during which time 
his studies were materially impeded by his 
mother's taking him to Sloane Terrace every 
Saturday and detaining him till Monday — 
much to the annoyance of the Doctor, who 
strongly remonstrated againstit — young Byron, 
at the suggestion of his mother, and with the 
consent of Lord Carlisle, was sent to Harrow. 
During his residence in Dulwich Grove, the 
same amiability of disposition that charac- 
terized him at Aberdeen seems to have ac- 
companied him Dr. Glennie says, "I found 
him enter upon his studies with alacrity and 
success. He was playful, good humoured, 
and beloved by his companions. His reading 
in history and poetry was far beyond the 
usual standard of his age, and he showed an 
intimate acquaintance with the historical parts 
of the Holy Scriptures." 

To a shy disposition, such as Byron's was 
in his youth — and such as, to a certain degree, 
it continued all his life — the transition from a 
quiet establishment, like that of Doctor Glen- 
nie's, to the bustle of a large public school, 
was sufficiently trying. Accordingly, we find 
from his own account, that, for the first year 
and a half, he " hated Harrow." The activity 
and sociableness of Ins nature however soon 
overcame this repugnance ; and from beinj/. a» 



LIFE OF LORD BYKOX. 



is 



oe himself says, "a. most unpopuiar boy," he 
rose at length to be a leader in all the sports, 
schemes, and mischief of the school. The Rev. 
Dr. Drurv, than whom there cannot be a more 
trustworthy or valuable authority, and who 
was at this period (1801) head master of the 
School, baa given the following brief but im- 
portant statement of the impressions which his 
early intercourse with the young noble left 
upon him: — "Mr. Hanson, Lord Byron's 
solicitor, consigned him to my care at the age 
of J3i, with remarks that his education had 
oeen imperfect; that he was ill prepared for a 
public school, but that he thought there was a 
•cleverness about him. After his departure I 
took my young pupil into my study, and en- 
leavoured to ehcit from him some information 
with respect to his former amusements and 
associates, but with little or no effect, — in fact 
I soon found that a wild mountain colt had 
bc^xi submitted to my management. But there 
^as mind in his eye. For some time a degree 
f shyness hung about him ; however, his 
lanner and temper soon convinced me, that 
ic might be led by a silken string to a point, 
ather than by a cable, — and on that principle 
f acted. Alter some continuance at Harrow, 
and when the powers of his mind had begun 
to expand, Lord Carlisle desired to see me in 
town : — I accordingly waited on his lordship. 
His object was to in.orm me of Lord Byron's 
expectations of property when he came of age, 
which he represented as contracted, and to 
inquire respecting his abilities. On the former 
circumstance I made no remark ; as to the 
latter, I replied, ' He has talents, my lord, 
which will add lustre to his rank.' ' Indeed ! ! ! ' 
said his lordship, with a degree of surprise, 
that, according to my feeling, did not express 
in it all the satisfaction I expected." 

The following interesting anecdotes of his 
school life at Harrow are to be found scattered 
through his various note-books; and coming 
as they do from his own pen, afford the live- 
liest and best records of that period which we 
can present to the reader. 

'• At Harrow I was remarked for the extent 
and readiness of my general information ; but 
iu all other respects idle, capable of great 
sudden exertions but of few continuous 
drudgeries. My qualities were much more 
oratorical and martial than poetical; and Dr. 
Drury, my grand patron, had a great notion 
that I should turn out an orator, from my 
fluency, my turbulence, my voice, my "opioua 
aess of declamation, and my action." 



"Peel, the orator and statesman, was my 
form-fellow. We were on good terms, but 
his brother was my intimate friend. There 
were always great hopes of Peel amongst us 
all, masters and scholars — and he has not dis- 
appointed them. As a scholar he was greatly 
my superior; as a declaimer and actor, I was 
reckoned at least his equal." 

'• The prodigy of our school days was George J 
Sinclair (son of Sir John); he made exercises 
for half the school, verses at will, and themes 
without it. He was a friend of mine and in 
the same remove, and used at times to beg me 
to let him do my exercises, — a request always 
most readily accorded upon a pinch. On the 
other hand, as he was of a pacitic temperament, 
I fought for him, or thrashed others for him, 
or thrashed himself to make him thrash others, 
when it was necessary as a point of honour 
and stature that he should so chastise ; and 
we were very good friends." 

" At Harrow, I fought my way very fairly 
I think I lost but one battle out of seven, and 

that was to H ; but he only won it by the 

unfair treatment of his own boarding-house 
where we boxed. I had not even a second." 
Notwithstanding these general habits of 
play and idleness, which might seem to indi 
cate a certain absence of reflection and feeling, 
there were moments when the youthful poet 
would retire thoughtfully within himself, and 
give way to moods of musing uncongenial 
with the usual cheerfulness of his age. They 
show a tomb in the churchyard at Harrow, 
overhanging a picturesque valley and com 
manding a view of Windsor, known among 
his schoolfellows by the name of " Byron's 
tomb ;" and here, it is said, he used to sit for 
hours wrapt in thought, — brooding lonelily 
over the first emotions of passion and genius 
in his soul, and perhaps indulging in those 
bright forethoughts of fame, under the influ- 
ence of which, when little more than loyeais 
of age, lie wrote the following lines : — 
" My epitaph shall be my name alone ; 
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
Oh may no other fame my deeds repay 1 
That, only that, shall single out the spot, 
By that rcmember'd, or with that forgot." 
His pursuits, however, continued to be of 
the same truant description during the whole 
of his stay at Harrow. — " always,' as he says 
himself, "cricketing, rebelling, rowing, and a 
all manner of mischiefs." The general cha- 
racter which he bore among the masters was 
that of an idle bov, who could never ieaiu 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



anything; and, as fa* as regarded his tasks 
in school, this reputation was, by his own 
avowal, not ill-founded. But, notwithstanding 
his backwardness in mere verbal scholarship, 
:>n which so large and precious a portion of 
life is wasted, in all that general and miscel- 
laneous knowledge which is chiefly useful in 
Nhe world, he was making rapid and even 
wonderful progress. With a mind too inqui- 
sitive and excursive to be imprisoned within 
statutable limits, he flew to subjects that in- 
terested his already manly tastes, with a zest 
which it is not probable that mere school pedan- 
tries could inspire ; and the irregular, but ardent 
snatches of study which he caught in this way, 
gave an impulse to a mind like his, which 
left more disciplined and plodding competitors 
far behind. The list, indeed, which he has 
left on record, of the works, in all departments 
of literature, which he thus hastily and greedily 
devoured, is such as almost to startle belief, — 
comprising, as it does, a prodigious stock of 
multifarious reading, including almost the 
whole body of English poetry. The vacations 
he usually spent with his mother, who, in the 
summer of 180], took up her residence at 
Cheltenham. In the autumn of 1802, he 
passed a few weeks with her at Bath, where 
he entered, rather prematurely, into some of 
the gaieties of the place. On leaving Bath, 
Mrs. Byron took up her abode, in lodgings, at 
Nottingham, — Newstead Abbey being at this, 
time (1803) let to Lord Grey de Ruthyn, — and' 
during the Harrow vacation of this year, she- 
was joined there by her son. So attached was- 
he to Newstead, that even to be in its neigh-)- 
bourhood was a delight to him ; and, an intu 
maev having sprung up between him anrt his 
noble tenant, an apartment in the abbey was 
henceforth always at his service. 

We now come to an event in his life, which, 
according to his own deliberate persuasion, 
exercised a lasting and paramount influence 
t)ver the whole of his subsequent career. In 
the neighbourhood of the abbey, at Annesley, 
resided a family of the name of Chaworth, to 
whom he had, some time before, been intro- 
duced in London, and with whom he soon re- 
newed his acquaintance. This family were 
the descendants ol that Mr. Chaworth who 
was killed in a duel by the grand-uncle of the 
poet, the fifth Lord Byron, and for which the 
latter stood his trial before the House of Peers, 
in the year 1765. Lapse of years, however, 
and benevolence of disposition, served to obli- 
terate the reeollectiou of this catastrophe, and 



a feeling of mutual esteem grew up oetween 
the present youthful lord and the young heiress 
of Annesley. In addition to the many worldly 
advantages which encircled her, Miss Cha- 
worth possessed much personal beauty and a 
disposition the most amiable and attaching. 
Though already alive to all her charms, it was 
at the period of which we are speaking that 
the young poet seems to have drunk deepest 
of that fascination whose effects were to be 
so lasting. He himself, in a memorandum in 
one of his notebooks, says: — "Our union 
would have healed feuds in which blood had 
been shed by our fathers, — it would have 
joined lands broad and rich, — it would have 
joined at least one heart, and two persons not 
ill matched in years (she is two years my elder) 
and — and — and — what has been the result?" 
This result was occasioned by a very thought 
less expression on the one hand, and by very* 
hasty deportment on the other. He was either 
told of, or overheard, Miss Chaworth saying 
to her maid, " Do you think I could care any- 
thing for that lame boy?" This expression, 
as he himself described it, shot through his 
heart. Though late at night, he darted out ot 
the house, and, scarcely knowing whither he 
ran, never stopped till he found himself at 
Newstead. 

The vacation of 1804 he passed with his 
mother at Southwell, to which place she had 
removed from Nottingham ; and in the month 
of October, 1805, he was sent to Trinity 
College, Cambridge, being then in his seven- 
teenth year. His feelings on leaving Harrow 
seem to have been those of deep regret, aggra 
vated, as he himself asserts, by the reflection 
that " he was no longer a boy." This sort of 
estrangement, however, soon wore off, his com- 
panions being " social, lively, hospitable, and 
gay far beyond his gaiety." Swimming, diving 
(at which he was veiy expert), sparring, 
cricketing, and writing poetry, now occupied 
his chief attention ; and in the summer of 
1806, he again joined his mother at South- 
well, — among the small, but select, society of 
which place he had, during his visits, formed 
some intimacies and friendships, the memory 
of which is still cherished there fondly and 
proudly. His visit, this summer, was, how- 
ever, interrupted by one of those explosions o. 
temper, on the part of Mrs. Byron, to which, 
from his earliest chddhood he had been but t m 
well accustomed, and in producing which Lis 
own rebel spirit was not. always, it may he 
supposed, entirely blameless. Between a 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XI 



temper such a.s his and the loud hurricane 
hursts of his mother, a collision must be some- 
what formidable ; and the age at which the 
young poet was now arrived, when the nn- 
oatience of youth begins to champ the bit, 
would but render the occasions of such shocks 
•nore frequent. In general, however, when a 
storm threatened he found safety in flight, and 
11 the instance to which we now allude he made 
hasty retreat to a friend's house, and thence 
started for London. Mrs. Byron was not, 
however, behind hand, in energy and decision, 
with his young lordship, but immediately, on 
discovering his retreat, set off after him. The 
Testilt of their interview was that she returned 
without her son, the latter preferring to pro- 
•bng his excursion by a visit to Worthing and 
Harrowgate, whence he returned to Southwell, 
to take part in some private theatricals. It 
was about t ,: - period that he had a volume of 
poetic essays printed for circulation amongst 
his friends ; but at the suggestion of the Rev. 
.fohn Becher (afterwards prebendary of South- 
well) he had the copies withdrawn and com- 
mitted to the flames. Considering himself 
bound to replace them by a less faultless 
♦dition, he instantly set to work, and during 
die ensuing six weeks, continued busily occu- 
pied with his task. The fame which he now 
leaped within his limited circle made him but 
nore eager to try his chance on a wider field ; 
sjid the hundred copies of which this edition 
insisted were hardly out of hand, when, with 
irush activity, he went to press again, and his 
first published volume, the " Hours of Idle- 
ness," made its appearance. 

His visits to Southwell now (1807) became 
few and transient, but of his charity and kind- 
heartedness he left there — as, indeed, at every 
place, throughout life, where he resided any 
time — the most endearing recollections. " He 
never," says a person who knew him inti- 
mately at this period, " met with objects of 
distress without affording them succour." A 
considerable portion of this year was passed 
in London, yet to say that he was idle, would 
be a contradiction, if we consider the extent 
f his correspondence, the number of his 
oetic essays, and the immense mass of En- 
glish literature which his note-books indicate 
as having been perused — consisting of His- 
tory, Geography, Biography, Law, Philosophy, 
Poetry, Eloquence, Divinity, and miscellanies, 
anr*. th°n calculate the time passed in amuse- 
ments and taking exercise (to subdue that 
abesi'.v which he so much dreaded), which 



can be best collected from his own language : 
" Last week I swam in the Thames from 
Lambeth through the two bridges, West- 
minster and Blackfriars, a distance, including 
the different turns and tacks made on the 
way, of three miles ! You see I am in excellent 
training in case of a squall at sea." And 
again, " I have got a new friend, the finest in 
the world, a tame bear. When I brought 
him here (to Cambridge), they asked me 
what I meant to do with him, and my reply 
was, 'he should sit for a fellowship.' This 
place is a villanous chaos of din and drunken- 
ness; nothing but hazard and burgundy, hunt 
ing, mathematics, and Newmarket, riot and 
racing." Notwithstanding the danger, even 
to the most prudent youth, of such example 
and such scenes, the irregularities to which 
he gave way were of a nature far less gross 
than those, perhaps, of any of his associates. 
The Edinburgh Review, at this time (March, 
1808) issued a most truculent critique on his 
" Hours of Idleness," said to proceed from the 
pen of Henry (subsequently, Lord) Brougham. 
Seldom, indeed, has it fallen to the lot of the 
justest criticism to attain celebrity such as 
injustice has procured for this; bu. levelling 
principles were then rampant, and the oppor- 
tunity of insulting a lord even though a liberal, 
under pretext of admonishing a poetaster, was 
a temptation too rare to be resisted. Though 
his pride had been wounded to the quick, and 
his ambition humbled, yet this feeling of 
humiliation lasted but for a moment. The 
very reaction of his spirit against aggression 
roused him to a full consciousness of his own 
powers, — the pain and the shame of the injury 
Were forgotten in the proud certainty of re 
venge, and the collected energy of his mind 
applied to the production of his " Engl^r- 
Bards and Scotch Reviewers." 

It was in the autumn of this year (1808), 
that he, for the first time, took up his residence 
at Newstead Abbey. The mansion having 
been left in a most ruinous condition by its 
late occupant, Lord Grey de Ruthvn, he pro- 
ceeded immediately to fit up some of the 
apartments, so as to render them — more with 
a view to his mother's accommodation than his 
own — comfortably habitable. His coining ol 
age in 1809, was celebrated, at Newstead. by 
such festivities as his limited means admitted 
The pecuniary supplies requisite for his outset 
at this epoch, were procured from money- 
lenders at an enormously usurious interest, 
the payment of which for a long time con 



xn 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



rinued a burden to him. He now determined 
on taking his seat in the House of Peers, and 
having commnnioated his intention to Lord 
Carlisle, — under the impression that it was 
customary for a young peer, on first taking 
h>s seat, to be introduced by a member, — 
instead of the answer he expected, he received 
a mere formal and cold reply. In a letter to 
his mother (March 6, 1809), he says : " I shall 
get my seat on the return of the affidavits 
from Carhais, in Cornwall, and will do some- 
thing in the House soon Lord Carlisle 

has used me infamously, and refused to state 
any particulars of my family to the Chan- 
cellor " (Lord Eldon). All the necessary 
documents, however, having been at length 
obtained, he, on the 13th of March, presented 
himself in the House, friendless and un- 
attended, save by one individual, a distant 
relative, who, chancing to pass through St. 
James's-strett on that day, casually looked in. 
This relative was Mr. Dallas, who says: 
" Passing down St. James's-street, but with 
no intention of calling on him, I saw his 
chariot at the door, and went in. His counte- 
nance, paler than usual, showed that his mind 
was agitated. He said to me — ' I am glad 
you happened to come in ; I am going to take 
my seat, perhaps you will accompany me.' 
I expressed my readiness to do so, and we 
accordingly proceeded to the House, where we 
were received in one of the ante-chambers by 
some of the officers in attendance, with whom 
he settled respecting the fees he had to pay. 
One of them went to apprise the Chancellor 
of his being there, and soon returned for him. 
When Lord Byron entered, 1 thought he looked 
^aler than before ; and he certainly wore a 
countenance in which mortification was min- 
gled with, but subdued by, indignation. He 
passed the woolsack without looking round, 
and advanced to the table where the proper 
officer was attending to administer the oaths. 
When he had gone through them, the Chan- 
cellor quitted his seat, and went towards him 
with a smile, putting out his hand warmly to 
welcome him, and, though I did not catch 
his words, 1 saw that he paid him some com- 
pliment. Lord Byron then carelessly seated 
himself for a few minutes on one of the empty 
benches to the left of the throne, usually oc- 
cupied by the lords of the opposition, and 
having again joined me, we returned to St. 
James's-street." So far from taking an active 
part in the proceedings of his noble brethren, 
as vviu anticipated, he appears to have re- 



garded even the ceremony of his atteu lane- 
among them as irksome and mortifying; and, 
in a few days after his admission to his seat, 
he withdrew in disgust to the seclusion of • 
Newstead, where he was soon actively en- 
gaged in preparing a new edition of his satire, 
in arrangements for his intended tour, and 
in dispensing his hospitalities to a few college 
friends who had assembled around him to 
celebrate a sort of festive farewell. 

His new edition being now ready for the 
press, and all necessary preparations for his 
journey made, he, on the 11th of .Tune, pro- 
ceeded to London, and on the 2nd of July, 
set sail from Falmouth, in company with Mr 
Hobhouse, for Lisbon, where they arrived 
after a pleasant voyage of four days and a 
half, rested ten days, and thence proceeded to 
Seville, Cadiz, Gibraltar; Tepaleen (in A' ■ 
bania), where he was hospitably entertained 
by Ali Pacha; Jannina, Zitza, Acarnaniu, 
and on the 21st of November arrived at Mis 
solonghi. And here it is impossible not to 
pause, and send a mournful thought forward 
to the visit which, fifteen years after, he paid 
to this same spot, when, in the full meridian 
of his age and fame, he came to lay down his 
life as the champion of that land, through 
which he now wandered a stripling and a 
stranger. He next proceeded to Patras, where 
he remained a fortnight ; thence directed his 
course to Vostizza, Mount Parnassus, Le- 
panto, Thebes, Mount Cithaeron, and on 
Christmas-eve arrived at Athens. On this his 
first visit to the city of Minerva, he made a 
stay of between two and three months. 

An unexpected offer of a passage to Smyrna 
in an English sloop of war, the Pylades, 
now induced the travellers to make imma 
diate preparations for departure ; and on tr 
5th of March, 1810, they reluctantly took 
leave of Athens. At Smyrna Lord B, ron 
took up his residence in the house of tht> 
Consul-General, and remained there, witfc 
the exception of two or three days spent ir 2 
visit to the ruins of Ephesus, till the llth of 
April, when he left Smyrna, in the SalselAe 
frigate, bound for Constantinople ; and aft i 
an exploratory visit to the ruins of Tro&.j, 
arrived, at the beginning of May, in the Dar- 
danelles. While in the straits, waiting a 
favourable wind, he thus writes to his trie- id 
Mr Drury : — " This morning (May 3rd) 1 
swam from Sestos to Abydos. The im.ue- 
diate distance is not above a mite, but ihe 
current renders it hazardous so much sr. 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



Xll 



that I doubt whether Leander's conj ugal affec- 
tion must not have been a little chilled in his 
passage." On the 14th of May he arrived at 
Constantinople, where Mr. Adair, the English 
minister, pressed him to take up his residence 
at the English palace, but this hospitable 
offer Lord Byron declined, preferring the 
freedom of a homely inn. Having made an 
excursion to the Black Sea, passing through 
the Bosphorus, seated himself on the Cyanean 
rocks, visited the principal mosques by vir- 
tue of a firman, attended an audience given 
to the British ambassador by the Sultan, and 
seen the principal curiosities, he and his fel- 
;o\v traveller took their departure, on the 14th 
of July, in the Salsette frigate. — Mr. Hob- 
louse, with the intention of proceeding to 
England; and Lord Byron, with the resolu- 
tion of again visiting Greece, which he 
reached in four days from Constantinople, 
landing at the island of Teos, whence he took 
boat to Athens ; spent about two months 
visiting the Morea, part of which time he was 
seriously ill atPatras ; and about'eight months 
more in excursions through Attica, still 
making Athens his head-quarters, where he 
had apartments in a Franciscan convent, and 
wrote his " Hints from Horace," " Curse of 
Minerva," and various other pieces About 
the middle of May he sailed for Malta, 
where he was detained by an attack of ter- 
tian fever; and on the 3rd of June, continued 
his course to England, arriving early in July. 
in a letter written about this period, he says ; 
- — " I have just been two years absent from 
England, and I returr to it with much the 
same feeling which prevailed on my depar- 
ture, viz. indifference The 

first thing I shall have to encounter will be a 
lawyer, the next a creditor, then colliers, 
farmer*, surveyors, and all the agreeable at- 
tachments to estates out of repair, and con- 
tested coal-pits. In short, I am sick and 
sony, and when I have a little repaired my 
irrepaiable affairs, away I shall march, either 
to campaign in Spain, or back again to the 
East, where I can at least have cloudless 
k kies and a cessation from importunities." 

Immediately on his arrival in London, and 
while engaged settling some law affairs with 
bis agent, he was suddenly called away to 
Newstead by an event which affected him far 
more deeply than might have been expected, — 
the dangerous illness of his mother, whom, 
fate would have it. he was destined never to 
see again. In a letter, dated August 2nd, 



1811, he says: " My poor mother died yen 
terday! and I am on my way from town, u 
attend her to the family vault. I heard oat 
day of her illness, the next of her death. 
Thank God, her last moments were tranquil. 
Peace be to her!" Whether from a return of 
early fondness and the all-atoning power ol 
the grave, or from the prospect of that void in 
his future life — that loneliness — which this 
loss of his only link with the past would 
leave, certain it is that he felt the death of his 
mother most acutely. It has been remarked 
that " the future good or bad conduct of the 
child depends entirely on the mother ;" how 
far the leaven that sometimes mixed itself 
with the better nature of the young poet — his 
uncertain and waywardimpulses — nis defiance 
of restraint — the occasional precipitance of 
his resentments — may have had their origin 
in his early collision with maternal caprice 
and violence, is a question upon which each 
will decide according to the more or less 
weight he may attribute to the influence of 
such occurrences on the formation of charac- 
ter. It cannot be denied, however, that not- 
withstanding ^er injudicious and coarse 
treatment of him, Mrs. Byron loved her soi: 
with that sort of fitful fondness of which 
alone her nature seemed capable — even 
more, that she was ambitiously proud of him 
Having now passed several months between 
Newstead and London, in preparing new 
editions of his works, composing others, and 
arranging the state of his affairs, he deter- 
mined to make his appearance once more in 
the House of Lords. He accordinglv took 
his seat on the 27th of February, 1812. The 
subject of debate was the Nottingham Frame 
Breaking Bill, against which he delivered his 
maiden-speech — one on which the highes^ 
encomiums were passed even by ministerial 
members. 

Among the tributes to his fame, this year, 
he had the honour of being presented, at that 
royal personage's own request, to the Princt 
Regent, " Who," says Mr. Dalits, " ex- 
pressed his admiration of ' Childe Harold's 
Pilgrimage,' and continued a conversation 
which so fascinated the poet that, had it not 
been for an accidental deferring of the next 
levee, he bade fair to become a visitor at 
Carlton House, if not a complete courtier." 

We now find him at the zenith of poetic 
fame — honourably noticed by royalty, his 
society courted by those nobles who before 
stood with cold formality aloof, and an au 



XIV 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



miring wor! j captivated and dazzlen by tne 
electric brilliancy of his genius. No mow 
opportune moment could have been selectea 
for that important change in life, which, it 
•would appear, he contemplated; for in his 
note-book at this period (1813) his lordship 
writes : " A wife would be the saving of me." 
It was under this conviction, entertained not 
only by himself but by some of his friends, 
of the prudence of his taking timely refuge in 
matrimony from those perplexities which form 
the sequel of all less regular ties, that he had 
been induced to turn his thoughts seriously to 
marriage ; and chiefly, it is said, by the ad- 
vice and through the intervention of Lady 
Melbourne, to become a suitor for the hand 
of her niece, Miss Milbanke, daughter of Sii 
Ralph Milbanke, of Seaham, in the county of 
Durham Though his first proposal was nol 
accepted , every assurance of regard and 
esteem accompanied the refusal— the young 
lady even requested that they should con- 
tinue to write to each other — in short, the 
refusal was anything but a decisive one; 
and on a second offer of his hand by the 
noble peer, in Sept. 1814, she thought propel 
to accept it, and on the 2nd of January, 1815, 
thev were united. 

Shortly before his marriage, on a scrutiny 
into the state of his affairs, he found them in 
bo utterly embarrassed a condition as to fill 
him with alarm and even to suggest to his 
mind the prudence of deferring it— the die, 
nowever. was cast, and he had no alternative 
but t<> proceed. These embarrassments were 
now, unfortunately, not slow in realising his 
worst anticipations. The increased expenses 
of his new mode of life, with but very little 
increase of means to meet them, — the long 
arrears of early pecuniary obligations, as well 
as the claims which had been, gradually, since 
then, accumulating, all pressed upon him now 
irith collected force, and reduced him to some 
of the most galling humiliations of poverty,— 
right or nine times were executions in his 
Bouse within twelve months ! He had even 
Oeen driven, by the necessity of encountering 
such demands, to the trying expedient of part- 
ing with his books, — which circumstance 
coming to the ears of his publisher, Mr. Mur- 
ray, that gentleman instantly forwarded to 
bim ^1,500, with an assurance that another 
sum of the same amount should be at his ser- 
vice in a few weeks. This generous and 
truly noble offer was gratefully acknowledged 
by Lord Byron, but at the same time proudly 



declined. Great dissatisfaction appears tirt 
to have been manifested by Lady Byron— 
the mortification of not being able to support 
a style suitable to her rank, the fretfuiness 
occasioned in her husband by his pecuniary 
distresses, and the imaginary impression made 
on her mind that he was under the influence 
of insanity — all combined to induce her to 
wish for a separation ; and she, accordingly, 
under pretence of paying a short visit to hci 
father, left London for one of his seats, 
whither Lord Byron was to follow in a few 
days ; but from whence, immediately on h-— 
arrival, Sir Ralph Milbanke wrote to acquaint 
him that she would return to him no morn. 
Thus, at the moment he was " standing alone 
on his hearth, with his household gods shivered 
around him," he was also doomed to receive 
the startling intelligence, that the wife who 
had just parted with him in kindness, had 
parted with him — forever! The issue of this 
unfortunate marriage was one daughter, Au- 
gusta Ada, born 1 0th December, 1815. 

If there be truth in the assertion that " the 
greater number of unhappy marriages may 
oe traced to trivial causes," there can be little 
•loubt that Lord Byron's must be placed in 
the category. The last words of the parting 
vvife to the husband being those of the most 
playful affection, while the language of the 
deserted husband towaids the wife was in a 
strain of tenderest eulogy, are in themselves a 
sufficient proof that, at the time of their part- 
ing, no very deep sense of injHiy could have 
existed. The tide of popular feeling, how- 
ever, now set in against him with such im- 
petuosity, that the utter hopelessness of 
stemming the torrent seems to have prompted 
his withdrawal to a foreign land; and we 
accordingly find him, on the 25th April, 1816, 
and in the 28th year of his age, taking a last 
farewell of his native country 

The noble exile first proceeded to Ostend, 
thence to Brussels, Waterloo, and Geneva , 
and in the early part of October, set out for 
Italy, visiting Martigny, Milan, Verona, and 
Venice, which was his chief station till De- 
cember, 1819. During this interval he spent 
some days at Rome, Ferrara, and otner 
places. He next proceeded to Ravenna, 
whence his correspondence for nearly two 
years is dated (including his visits toBologna.) 
It was while in Venice that he became ao 
quainted with the Countess Guiccioli, a young 
Romagnese Hy, daughter of Count G anion 
of Ravenna. Whilst residing at Ravenna h« 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



XT 



appears to have been mixed up with Carbo- 
oaro politics to a great extent, and to have 
c retributed large sums for the patriots of the 
A istrian States, of the Romish legations, and 
even of Naples. He now removed to Pisa 
[Aov. 1821), and in September, 1822, took 
up his residence at Genoa. About this period 
he began to turn his thoughts more actively 
towards Greece, and having received commu- 
nicati >ns from the Greek Committee in Lon- 
don and other quarters, impressing on him 
the great stimulus his presence on the scene 
ot action would afford, he lost no time in 
making preparations for his romantic expedi- 
tion. By the aid of his banker at Genoa, he 
contrived to raise 10,000 crowns in specie, 
and £40,000 in bills. An English vessel, the 
Hercules, was now freighted, and on the 14th 
July, 1823, he and his suite sailed for Leg- 
horn, to take in gunpowder and other materiel. 
and thence proceeded to Argostoli in Cepha- 
.onia, where they arrived about the 3rd of 
August. 

Having despatched messengers to Corfu 
and Missolonghi, in order to ascertain the 
position of affairs, he, mean time, made an ex- 
cursion to Ithaca, which occupied eight days; 
and Mavrocordato having been appointed, 
with full powers, to organise Western Greece, 
the fit moment for Lord Byron's presence 
seemed to have arrived. He, therefore, forth- 
with embarked on board a Greek vessel, the 
Mistico ; and, previously touching at Zante, 
to take in specie, proceeded to Missolonghi, 
where he arrived, having narrowly escaped 
being captured by the Turkish fleet, on the 
5th Jan. 1824. 

The reception their no ->le visitor experienced 
was flattering and brilliant. The whole popu- 
lation of the place crowded to the shore to 
welcome him : the ships anchored off the 
fortress fired a salute as he passed ; and all 
the troops and dignitaries, civil and military, 
with Prince Mavrocordato at their head, met 
him on his landing, and accompanied him, 
amidst the mingled din of shouts, music, and 
discharges of artillery, to the residence pre- 
pared for him. 

He was now not long in ascertaining that 
disorganization and dissatisfaction prevailed 
in every department, and that while the 
Government were unable to provide pay or 
food for the troops, the population presented 
a fermenting mass of insubordination and dis- 
cord, tending, far more likely, to their turning 
their arms against each other than against the 



enemy. In this state of things his ready foro- 
sight pointed out the necessity of energetic 
measures, and, at his suggestion, an expedition 
was projected against Lepanto, a for ified 
town, which, from its commanding the entrance 
to the Gulf of Corinth, was of vital importance. 
Of this expedition he was appointed Com- 
mander-in-chief, but whilst the necessary pre- 
parations were bein^ made, he was strenuously 
opposed by Colonel Stanhope,who, at a meeting 
on the 15th of February, maintained the pro- 
priety of first healing internal dissensions by 
means of a free press — to which Lord Byron 
replied : " I think the authors brigade will be 
ready before the soldier's printing press." The 
words were scarcely uttered, when he staggered 
forward a pace or two, and fell into the arms 
of one of the by-standers. As soon as the fit 
ceased, leeches were applied to his temples, 
and other restoratives administered, which 
partially restored him. 

The Suliote troops destined for the expedi- 
tion now became so insubordinate and mu- 
tinous that all idea of the attack on Lepanto 
was abandoned. This, added to the dreadful 
shock his frame sustained on me loth, and the 
effect of a cold caught in an excursion made 
into the country with Count Gamba, whence 
he returned wet through and in a state of 
violent perspiration, brought on a shivering 
attended with rheumatic fever. On the 11th 
of April the fever seemed to increase, and on 
the 14th, Dr. Bruno recommended bleeding, 
which, though approved of by a meeting of the 
faculty, was obstinately opposed by the patient. 
He, however, at length assented, but the result 
did not correspond with the hopes formed ; yet 
it was repeated twice on the 17th, and blisters 
applied to his feet. On the 18th, he rose about 
3 o'clock in the afternoon, and leaning on bis 
servant Tita, tottered into an adjoining room, 
but feeling faint, returned to his bed. It was 
now evident that he knew he was dying, and 
between his anxiety to make his last wishes 
understood and the rapid failure of his utter- 
ance, a most painful scene ensued. On 
Fletcher asking whether he should bring pen 
and paper to take down his worc's— " Oh no," 
he replied, " there is no time — it is now nearly 
over. Go to my sister— tell her — go to Lady 
Byron — you will see her and say — " Here his 
voice faltered and became indistinct. Yet he 
continued to mutter — " Poor Greece — -my poor 
servants — my sister — my child." 

It was about 6 o'clock in the evning. when 
he said " Now I shall go to sleep ' and thea 



XVJ 



LIFE OF LORD BYRON. 



turning round, fell into that slumber from 
which he never awoke. At a quarter past 6 
o'clock in the evening of the following day 
'the 19th) he was observed to open his eyes 
and shut them again. The physicians felt his 
pulse — he was no more. 

The grief that universally pervaded all 
classes at Missolonghi on the announcement 
of his death would be as difficult as superfluous 
to describe. No honours that could be de- 
vised, were too great to be lavished on his 
remains. At Salona, where the Congress had 
assembled, his soul was prayed for in the 
church ; after which the whole garrison and 
the citizens went out into the plain, where 
another religious ceremony took place, under 
the shade of the olive trees. This being con- 
cluded, the troops fired; and an oration, full 
of the warmest praise and gratitude, was pro- 
nounced by the High Priest. 

After an energetic effort on the part of the 
Greek Government and people to retain his 
remains among them, and place them in th'j 
Temple of Theseus at Athens, it was at length' 
conceded to allow them to be sent to Eng- 
land. They were, accordingly, embarked, on' 
ffct gfc>d af May, on board an English frigate, 



under a mournful salute from the battery ; and 
on trie 29th of June arrived in the Downs. 
On its arrival in London, the bod; was re- 
moved to the house of Sir Edward Knatchbull. 
where it lay in state during Friday and Satur- 
day, the 9th and 10th of July. The Dean and 
Chapter of Westminster are said to have in- 
timated their intention of refusing his remains 
a resting-place in the Abbey ; even if they 
had signified their assent, it would not have 
altered the determination of his friends to de- 
posit them in the villago-church of Hucknall, 
where, on Friday, the 16th of July, they were 
interred, close to those of his mother, in the 
family vault. We cannot close this biography 
more appropriately than by an extract from 
a tribute to his memory, by Samuel Rogers 
Esq. 

" Thou art gone ; 
And he who would assail thee in 'hy grave, 
Oh ! let him pause ! for who among us all, 
Tried as thou wert — even from thy earliest years, 
When wandering, yet unspoilt, a Highland boy- 
Tried as thou wert, and with thy soul of flame ; 
Pleasure, while yet the down was on thy cheek, 
Uplifting, pressing, and to lips like thine, 
Her charmed cup — ah, who amoi.gst us all 
Could say he had not err'd as much acd more ? * 



die (Eltaour; 



A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALK 



One fatal remembrance— one sorrow that throws 
Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — 
To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring. 
For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sling " 

Moorb. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The tale which these disjointed fragments pre- 
sent, is founded upon circumstances now less 
common in the East than formerly; either be- 
cause the ladies are more circumspect than in 
the " olden time," or because the Christians have 
better fortune, or less enterprise. The story, 
when entire, contained the adventures of a 
female slave, who was thrown, in the Mussul- 
man manner, into the sea. for infidelity, and 
avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the 
time the Seven Islands were possessed by the 
Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts 
were beaten back from the Morea, which they 
had ravaged for some time subsequent to the 
Russian invasion. The desertion of the Mai- 
notes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, 
led to the abandonment of that enterprise, and 
to the desolation of the Morea, during which 
the cruelty exercised on all sides was unpa- 
ralleled even in the anual i of the faithful. 1 



3H)e CErtaour. 

No breath of air to break the wave 
Tna„ rolls below the Athenian's grave, 
That tomb 2 which, gleaming o'er the cliff, 
Fust greets the homeward-veering skiff, 
High v)'er the land he saved in vain; 
When shall such hero live again? 

***** 

Fair clime ! where every season smiles 
Benignant o'er those blessed isles. 
Which, seen from far Colonna's height, 
Made glad the heart that hail? the sight, 
And lend to loneliness delight. 



There mildly dimpling, Ocean s cheek 
Reflects the tints of many a peak 
Caught by the laughing tides that lave 
These Edens of the eastern wave: 
And if at times a transient breeze 
Break the blue crystal of the seas. 
Or sweep one blossom from the trees, 
How welcome is each gentle air 
That wakes and wafts the odours there! 
For there — the Rose o'er crag or vale, 
Sultana of the Nightingale, 3 

The maid for whom his melody, 
His thousand songs are heard on high, 
Blooms blushing to her lover's tale : 
His queen, the garden quf»en, his Rose, 
Unbent by whids, unchill'd by snows, 
Far from the winters -of the west, 
By every breeze and season blest, 
Returns the sweets by nature given 
In softest incense hiu\ to heaven ; 
And grateful yields that smiling «ky 
Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. 
And many a summer flower is there, 
And many a shade that love might share. 
And many a grotto, meant for rest, 
That holds the pirate for a guest; 
Whose bark in sheltering c«' e below 
Lurks for the passing peace-': 1 prow, 
Till the gay mariner's guiiu 4 
Is heard, and seen the ever.a'tg star; 
Then stealing with the muffled oar 
Far shaded by the rocky shore, 
Rush the night-prowlers on the prey, 
And turn to groans his roundelay. 
Strange — that where Nature lo^'ed ta tree* 
As if for Gods, a dwelling place, 
And every charm and grace hath mix d 
Within the paradise she fix'd. 



THE GIAOUR. 



There man, enamour d of distress, 

Should mar it into wilderness, 

And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower 

That tasks not one laborious hour; 

Nor claims the culture of his hand 

To bloom along the fairy land. 

But. springs as to preclude his care, 

And sweetly woos him — but to spare! 

Strange — that where all is peace beside. 

There passion riots in her pride, 

And lust and rapine wildly reign 

To darken o'er the fair domain. 

It is as though the fiends prevail'd 

Against the seraphs they assail'd, 

And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell 

The freed inheritors of hell ; 

So soft the scene, so form d for joy, 

So curst the tyrants that destroy ! 

He ho hath bent him o'er the dead 
Ere tl.j first day of death is fled, 
The first dark day of nothingness, 
The last of danger and distress, 
(Before Decay's effacing fingers 
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) 
And mark'd the mild angelic air, 
The rapture of repose that's there, 
The fix'd yet tender traits that streak 
The languor of the placid cheek, 
And — but for that sad shrouded eye, 

That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, 
And but for that chill, changeless brow, 
Where cold Obstruction's apathy 
Appals the gazing mourner's heart, 
As if to him it could impart 
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon ; 
Yes, but for these and these alone, 
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, 
He still might doubt the tyrant's jiower; 
So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, 
The first, last look by death reveal'd! 
Such is the aspect of this shore ; 
'T is Greece, but living Greece no more! 
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, 
We start, for soul is warning there. 
Hers is the loveliness in death, 
That parts not quite with parting breath ; 
But beauty with that fearful bloom, 
That hue which haunts it to the tomb, 
Expressi nil's last receding ray, 
A gilded ha'o hoverinsj round decay, 
The I'arewed beam of Feeling past away ! 
Soark of that flame, perchance of heavenly 

birth, 
Which gleams, but warms no more its chr.rish'd 
<wtb .' 3 



Clime oi the un forgotten brave'. 
Whose land from plain to mountain cav* 
Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave ! 
Shrine of the mighty ! can it be, 
That this is all remains o:° thee? 
Approach, thou craven crouching slave 

Say, is not this Thermopylae? 
These waters blue that round you lave, 

Oh servile offspring of the free — 
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this 
The gulf, the rock of Salamis! 
These scenes, their story not unknown. 
Arise, and make again your own; 
Snatch from the ashes of your sires 
The embers of their former fires , 
And he who in the strife expires 
Will add to theirs a name of fear 
That Tyranny shall quake to hear, 
And leave his sons a hope, a fame, 
They too will rather die than shame. 
For freedom's battle once begun, 
Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, 
Though baffled oft is ever won 
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page, 
Attest it many a deathless age ! 
While kings, in dusty darkness hid, 
Have left a nameless pyramid, 
Thy heroes, though the general doom 
Hath swept the column from their tomb. 
A mightier monument command, 
The mountains of their native land! 
There points thy Muse to stranger's eya 
The graves of those that cannot die! 
'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, 
Each step from splendour to disgrace; 
Enough — no foreign foe could quell 
Thy soul, till from itself it fell ; 
Yes! Self-abasement paved the way 
To villain-bonds and despot sway. 



What can he tell who treads thy shors? 

No legend of thine olden time, 
No theme on which the muse might so* 
High as thine own in days of yore. 

When man was worthy of thy clime. 
The hearts within thy valleys bred, 
The fiery souls that might have led 

Thy sons to deeds sublime. 
Now crawl from cradle to the grave, 
Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave 

And callous, save to crime; 
Stain' d with each evil that pollutes 
Mankind, where least above the brut 
Without even savage viuue blest. 
Without one free or valiant breast. 



THE GIAOUR. 3 


Still to the neighbouring ports they waft 


He winds around : he hurries oy ; 


Proverbial wiles, and ancient craft; 


The rock relieves him from nn.ie eye, 


In this the subtle Greek is found, 


For well I ween unwelcome he 


For this, and this alone, renown' d. 


Whose glance is fix'd on those that f'iee; 


In vain might Liberty invoke 


And not a star but shines too bright 


The spirit to its bondage broke, 


On him who takes such timeless flight. 


Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: 


He wound along ; but ere he pass'd 


No more her sorrows I bewail, 


One glance he snatch' d, as if his last. 


Yet this will be a mournful tale. 


A moment check' d his wheeling steed, 


And they who listen may believe, 


A moment breathed him from his speed, 


Who heard it first had cause to grieve. 


A moment on his stirrup stood — 


***** 


Why looks he o'er the olive wood? 


Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, 


The crescent glimmers on the hill, 


The shadows of the rocks advancing 


The Mosque's high lamps are quivering still 


Start on the fisher's eye like boat 


Though too remote for sound to wake 


Of island-pirate or Mainote ; 


In echoes of the far tophaike, 9 


And fearful for his light caique, 


The flashes of each joyous peal 


lie shuns the near but. doubtful creek : 


Are seen to prove the Moslem's zeal, 


Though worn and weary with his toil, 


To-night, set Rhamazani's sun; 


And cumber'd with his scaly spoil, 


To-night, the Bairam feast's begun; 


Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, 


To-night — but who and what art thou 


Till Port Leone's safer shore 


Of foreign garb .and fearful brow? 


Receives him by the lovely light 


And what are these to thine or thee, 


That best becomes an Eastern night. 


That thou should'st either pause or flee? 


Who thundering comes on blackest steed, 


He stood — some dread was on his face, 


With slacken' d bit and hoof of speed? 


Soon Hatred settled in its place. 


Meneath the clattering iron's sound 


It rose not with the reddening flush 


The cavem'd echoes wake around 


Of transient Anger's hasty blush, 


In lash for lash, and bound for bound ; 


But pale as marble o'er the tomb, 


The foam that streaks the courser's side 


Whose ghastly whiteness aids its gloom. 


Seems gather' d from the ocean-tide : 


His brow was bent, his eye was glazed ; 


Though weary waves are sunk to rest, 


He raised his arm, and fwrcely raised, 


There's none within his rider's breast; 


And sternly shook his hand on high, 


And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 


As doubting to return or fly; 


'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! 3 


Impatient of his flight delay'd, 


I know thee not, I loathe thy race, 


Here loud his raven charger neigh' d — 


But in thy lineaments I trace 


Down glanced that hand, and grasp* d his blast* 


What time shall strengthen, not efface: 


That sound had burst his waking dream, 


Though young and pale, that sallow front 


As Slumber starts at owlet's scream. 


Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; 


The spur hath lanced his courser's sides , 


Though bent on earth thine evil eye, 


Away, away, for life he rides : 


As meteor-like thou glidest by, 


Swift as the hurl'd on high jerreed 10 


Right well I view and deem thee one 


Springs to the touch his startled steed; 


Whom Othman's suns should slay or shun. 


The rock is doubled, and the shore 




Shakes with the clattering tramp no mors 


On — on he hasten'd, and he drew 


The crag is won, no more is seen 


My gaze of wonder as he flew ; 


His Christian crest and haughty mien. 11 


Though like a demon of the night 


'T was but an instant he restrain' d 


He pass'd and vanish 'd from my sight, 


That fiery barb so sternly rein'd; 


His aspect and his air impress'd 


"T was but a moment that he stood, 


A troubled memory on my Weast, 


Tnen sped as if by death pursued: 


And long upon my startled ea* 


But in that instant o'er his soul 


Rung his dark courser's hoofs of fear. 


Winters of Memory seem'd to rod. 


He spurs his steed ; he nears the steep, 


And gather in that drop of time 


That, jutting, shadows o'er the deep ; 


A life of pain, an age of crime 



THE GIAOUR. 



ei him who loves, or hates, or fears, 
Such moment pours the grief of years : 
What felt he then, at one-i opprest 
By all that most distracts the breast? 
That pause, which ponder'd o'er his fate, 
Oh, who its dreary length shall date ! 
Though in Time's record nearly nought, 
It was Eternity to Thought! 
For infinite as boundless space 
The thought that Conscience must embrace, 
Which in itself can comprehend 
Woe without name, or hope, or end. 

The hour is past, the Giaour is gone; 
And did he fly or fall alone ? 
Woe to that hour he came or went ! 
The curse for Hassan's sin was sent 
To turn a palace to a tomb : 
fie came, he went, like the Simoom, 1 * 
That harbinger of fate and gloom, 
Beneath whose widely-wasting breath 
The very cypress droops to death — 
Dark tree, still sad when others' grief is fled, 
The only constant mourner o'er the dead ! 

The steed is vanish'd from the stall; 
No serf is seen in Hassan's hall; 
The lonely Spider's thin gray pall 
Waves slowly widening o'er the wall ; 
The Bat builds in his Haram bower, 
And in the fortress of his power 
The Owl usmps the beacon-tower; 
The wild-dog howls o'er the fountain's brim, 
With baffled thirst, and famine, grim; 
For the stream has shrunk from its marble bed, 
Where the weeds and the desolate dust are spread. 
T was sweet of yore to see it play 
And chase the sultriness of day, 
As springing high the silver dew 
[n whirls fantastically flew, 
And flung luxurious coolness round 
The air and verdure o'er the ground. 
T was sweet, when cloudless stars were bright, 
To view the wave of watery light, 
And hear its melody by night. 
And oft had Hassan's Childhood play'd 
Around the verge of that cascade; 
And oft upon his mother's breast 
That sound had harmonized his rest; 
And oft had Hassan's Youth along 
Its bank been soothed by Beauty's song 
And softer seem'd each melting tone 
Of Music mingled with its own. 
But. ne er shall Hassan's Age repose 
Along the brink at twilight's close . 



The stream thai fill'd that font is fled— 

The blood that warm'd his heart is shed' 

And here no more shall human voice 

Be heard to rage, regret, rejoice. 

The last sad note that sw ell'd the gale 

Was woman's wildest funeral wail : 

That quench'd in silence, all is still, 

But the lattice that flaps when the wind is shril 

Though raves the gust, and floods the rain, 

No hand shall close its clasp again. 

On desert sands 't were joy to scan 

The rudest steps of fellow man, 

So here the very voice of Grief 

Might wake an Echo like relief — 

At least 'twould say, "All are not gone; 

There lingers Life, though but in one" — 

For many a gilded chamber's there, 

Which Solitude might well forbear; 

Within that dome as yet Decay 

Hath slowly work'd her cankering way — 

But gloom is gather d o'er the gate, 

Nor there the Fakir's self will wait; 

Nor there will wandering Dervise stay, 

Tor bounty cheers not his delay ; 

Nor there will weary stranger halt 

To bless the sacred " bread and salt." 13 

Alike must Wealth and Poverty 

Pass heedless and unheeded by, 

For Courtesy and Pity died 

With Hassan on the mountain side. 

His roof, that refuge unto men, 

Is Desolation's hungry den. 

The guest flies the hall , and the vassal from labom 

Since Ids turban was cleft by the infidel's sabre! 1 * 



I hear the sound of coming feet, 
But not a voice mine ear to greet; 
More near — each turban I can scan, 
And silver-sheathed ataghan ; 15 
The foremost of the band is seen 
An Flmir by his garb of green : 16 
" Ho ! who' art thou ?" — " This low saiam 1 ' 
Replies of Moslem faith I am." — 
" The burthen ye so gently bear 
Seems one that claims your utmost care, 
And, doubtless, holds some precious freight, 
My humble bark would gladly wait." 

" Thou speakest sooth ; thy skiff unmoot, 
And waft us from the silent shore ; 
Nay. leave the sail still furi'd, and ply 
The nearest oar that's scatter' d"oy, 
And midway to those rocks where sleep 
The channel' d waters dark and deep. 



THE GIAOUR. 



Rest from your task — so — bravely done, 
Our course has been right swiftly run ; 
Yet 'tis the longest voyage, I trow, 
That one of— * ** * * 

* * * * • " 

Sullen it plunged, and slowly sank, 
The calm wave rippled to the bank ; 
I watch" d it as it sank, methought 
Some motion from the current caught 
Bestirr'd it more, — 'twas but the beam 
That checker' d o'er the living stream: 
I gazed, till vanishing from view, 
Like lessening pebble it withdrew; 
Still less and less, a speck of white 
That«gemm'd the tide, then mock'd the sight; 
And all its hidden secrets sleep, 
Known but to Genii of the deep, 
Which, trembling in their coral caves. 
They dare not whisper to the waves. 

* * « * * 

As rising on its purple wing 
The insect-queen 18 of eastern spring, 
O'er emerald meadows of Kashmeer 
Invites the young pursuer near, 
And leads him on from flower to flower 
A weary chase and wasted hour, 
Then leaves him, as it soars on high, 
With panting heart and tearful eye : 
So Beauty lures the full-grown child, 
With hue as bright, and wing as wild; 
A chase of idle hopes and fears, 
Begun in folly, closed in tears. 
If won, to equal ills betray' d, 
Woe waits the insect and the maid ; 
A life of pain, the loss of peace, 
From infant's play, and man's caprice: 
The lovely toy so fiercely sought 
Hath lost its charm by being caught, 
For every touch that woo'd its stay 
Hath brush' d its brightest hues away, 
Till charm, and hue, and beauty gone, 
'T is left to fly or fall alone. 
With wounded wing, or bleeding breast, 
Ah ! where shall either victim rest? 
Can this with faded pinion soar 
From rose to tulip as before? 
Or Beauty, blighted in an hour, 
Find joy within her broken bower? 
No: gayer insects fluttering by 
Ne'er droop the wing o'er those that die, 
\n<\ lovelier things have mercy shown 
To every failing but their own, 
And every woe a tear can claim 
Except an erring sister's shame. 



The Mind, that broods o'er guilty woes, 

Is like the Scorpion girt by tire, 
In circle narrowing as it glows. 
The riames around their captive close. 
Till inly search'd by thousand throes, 

And maddening in her ire, 
One sad and sole relief she knows, 
The sting she nourish'd for her foes, 
Whose venom never yet was vain, 
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain, 
And darts into her desperate brain: 
So do the dark in soul expire, 
Or live like Scorpion girt by fire ; 19 
So writhes the mind Remorse hath riven, 
Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, 
Darkness above, despair beneath, 
Around it flame, within it death ! 

* * * * • 

Black Hassan from the Haram flies. 
Nor bends on woman's form h*> eyes ; 
The unwonted chase each hour employs, 
Yet shares he not the hunter's joys. 
Not thus was Hassan wont to fly 
When Leila dwelt in his Serai. 
Doth Leila there no longer dwell ? 
That tale can only Hassan tell ■ 
Strange rumours in our city say 
Udoii that eve she fied away 
When Rhamazan's 20 last sun was set, 
And flashing from each minaret 
Millions of lamps proclaim' d the feast 
Of Bairam through the boundless Fast 
'T was then she went as to the bath, 
Which Hassan vainly search'd in wrath ; 
For she was flown her master's rage • 
In likeness of a Georgian page, 
And far beyond the Moslem's power 
Had wrong'd him with the faithless Giaoin 
Somewhat of this had Hassan deem d ; 
But still so fond, so fair she scem'd, 
Too well he trusted to the slave 
Whose treachery deserved a grave ; 
And on that eve had gone to mosque, 
And thence to feast in his kiosk. 
Such is the tale his Nubians tell, 
Who did not watch their charge too weflj 
But others say, that on that nigbt, 
By pale Phingari's '-'' trembling light, 
The Giaour upon his jet black steed 
Was seen, but seen alone to speed 
With bloody spur along the shore, 
Nor maid nor page behind him bore. 

Her eye's dark charm 'twere vain to U-i: 
But ga/.e on that of the Gazelle, 
It will assist thy fancy well; 



THE GIAOUR. 



As large, as languishingly dark, 

But Soul beam d forth in every spark 

That darted from beneath the lid, 

Bright as the jewel oi' Giamschid. 22 

Yea, Sold, and should our prophet say 

That form was nought but breathing clay, 

By Alia! I would answer nay; 

Though on Al-Sirat's 23 arch I stood, 

Which totters o'er the hery flood, 

With Paradise within my view, 

And all his Houris 24 beckoning through. 

Oh! who young Leila's glance could read 

And keep that portion of his creed, 

Which saith that woman is but dust, 

A soulless toy for tyrant's lust? 25 

On her might Muftis gaze, and own 

That through her eye the Immortal shone ; 

On her fair cheek's unfading hue 

The young pomegranate's 2ti blossoms strew 

Their bloom in blushes ever new; 

Her hair in hyacinthine 27 flow, 

When left to roll its folds below, 

As midst her handmaids in the hall 

She stood superior to them all, 

Hath swept the marble where her feet 

Gleam'd whiter than the mountain sleet 

Ere from the cloud that gave it birth 

It fell, and caught one stain of earth. 

The cygnet nobly walks the water; 

So moved on earth Circassia's daughter, 

The loveliest bird of Franguestan ! '-' 8 

As rears her crest the ruffled Swan, 

And spurns the wave With wings of pride, 
When pass the steps of stranger man 

Along the banks that bound her tide; 
Thus rose fair Leila's whiter neck : — 
Thus arm'd with beauty would she check 
Intrusion's glance, till Folly's gaze 
Shrunk from the charms it meant to praise- 
Thus high and graceful was her gait; 
Her heart was tender to her mate ; 
Her mate — stern Hassan, who was he? 
Alas ! that name was not for thee ! 

* * * * * 

Stern Hassan hath a journey ta'en 
With twenty vassals in his train, 
Each arm'd, as best becomes a man, 
With arquebuss and ataghan ; 
The chief before, as deck'd for war, 
Bears in his belt the scimitar 
Stain'd with the best of Arnaut blood, 
When in the pass the rebels stood, 
^nd few return'd to tell the tale 
Of what befell in Parae s vale. 
The pistols which his girdle bore 
Were those that once a pasha wore. 



Which still,though gemm'd andboss'd with gold 
Even robbers tremble to behold. 
T is said he goes to woe ^ bride 
More true than her who .eft his side; 
The faithless slave that broke her bower, 
And, worse than faithless, for a Giaour ! 



The sun's last rays are on the hi!!. 
And sparkle in the fountain rill, 
Whose welcome waters, cool and clear, 
Draw blessings from the mountaineer. 
Here may the loitering merchant Greek 
Find that repose 'twere vain to seel; 
In cities lodged too near his lord, 
And trembling for his secret hoard — 
Here may he rest where none can see, 
In crowds a slave, in deserts free ; 
And with forbidden wine may stain 
The bowl a Moslem must not drain. 



The foremost Tartar's in the gap, 
Conspicuous by his yellow cap ; 
The rest in lengthening line the while 
Wind slowly through the long defile . 
Above, the mountain rears a peak, 
Where vultures whet the thirsty beak, 
And theirs may be a feast to-night, 
Shall tempt them down ere morrow's iigfci 
Beneath, a river's wintry stream 
Has shrunk before the summer beam, 
And left a channel bleak and bare, 
Save shrubs that spring to perish there . 
Each side the midway path there lay 
Small broken crags of granite gray. 
By time, or mountain lightning, riven 
From summits clad in mists of heaven; 
For where is he that hath beheld 
The peak of Liakura unveil' d ? 



They reach the grove cf pine at Isui • 
" Bismillah ,2! > now the peril's past : 
For yonder \\ew the opening plain. 
And there we '11 prick our steeds amain 
The Chiaus spake, and as he said, 
A bullet whistled o'er his head ; 
The foremost Tartar bites the ground ! 

Scarce had they time to check *Ue reiii,. 
Swift from their steeds the riders Inn ud ; 

But three shall never mount apt in : 
Unseen the foes that gave the wand. 

The dying ask revenge in vain 



THE GIAOUR. 



U 



Though belter to have died with those 
Than near a life of Lingering woes. 

My spirit .shrunk not to sustain 

The searching throes of ceaseless pain ; 

Nor sought the self-accorded grave 

Of ancient tool and modern knave: 

Yet death I have not fear'd to meet ; 

And in the field it had been sweet, 

Had danger woo'd me on to move • 

The slave of glory, not of love. 

1 've hraved i f . — not for honour's boast; 

I smile at laurr Is won or lost ; 

To such let others carve their way, 

For high renown, jr hireling pay . 

Bui place again before my eyes 

Aught that I deem a worthy prize; 

The maid I love, the man 1 hate, 

And I will hunt the steps of fate, 

To save or slay, as these require, 

Through rending steel, and rolling fire : 

Nor need' st thou doubt this speech from one 

Who would but do — what he hath done. 

Death is but what the haughty brave, 

The weak must bear, the wretch must crave ; 

Then let Life go to him who gave : 

I have not quail'd to danger's brow 

When high and happy — need I now? 



" I loved her, Friar' nay, adored — 

But these arc words that all can use — 
I proved it more in deed than word ; 
There's blood upon that dinted sword, 

A stain its steel can never lose : 
T was shed for her, who died for me, 

It warm'd the heart of one abhorr'd: 
Nay, start not — no — nor bend thy knee, 

Nor midst my sins such act record ; 
Thou wilt absolve me from the deed, 
For he was hostile to thy creed ! 
The very name of Nazarene 
Was wormwood to his Paynim spleen. 
Ungrateful fool ! since but for brands 
Well wielded in some hardy hands, 
And wounds by Galileans given, 
The surest pass to Turkish heaven, 
For him his Houris still might wait 
Impatient at the Prophet's gate. 
I loved her — love will find its way 
Through paths where wolves would fear to 

prey ; 
And if it dares enough, 't were hard 
If passion nict not some rewar 1 — 



No matter how, or where, or why, 

I did not vainly seek, nor sigh: 

Yet sometimes, with remorv, in vain 

1 wish she had il?jt loved again. 

She died — I dare not tell thee how ; 

But look — 'tis written on my brow! 

There read of Cain the curse and crimp, 

I n characters unworn by time : 

Still, ere thou dost condemn me, pause ; 

Not mine the act, though I the cause. 

Yet did he but what I had done 

Had she been false to more than one. 

Faithless to him, he gave the blow ; 

But true to me, I laid him low : 

Howe'er deserved her doom might be, 

Her treachery was truth to me ; 

To me she gave her heart, that all 

Which tyranny can ne'er enthrall; 

And I, alas ! too late to save ! 

Yet all I then could give, I gave, 

'Twas some relief, our foe a grave. 

His death sits lightly : but her fate 

Has made me — what thou well may's! hate 

His doom was seal'd — he knew it well, 
Warn'd by the voice of stern Taheer, 
Deep in whose darkly boding ear*-* 
The deathshot peal'd of murder near, 

As filed the troop to where they fell ! 
lie died too in the battle broil, 
A time that heeds nor pain nor toil; 
One cry to Mahomet for aid, 
One prayer to Alia all he made : 
He knew and cross' d me in the fray — 
I gazed upon him where he lay, 
And watch'd his spirit ebb away: 
Though pierced like pard by hunters' steel, 
He felt not half that now I feel. 
I se'arch'd, but vainly search'd, to find 
The workings of a wounded mind ; 
Each feature of that sullen corse 
Betray'd his rage, but no remorse. 
Oh, what had Vengeance given to trace 
Despair upon his dying face ! 
The late repentance of that hour, 
When Penitence hath lost her power 
To tear one terror from the grave, 
And will not soothe, and cannot save. 



" The cold in clime are cold in blood, 
Their love can scarce deserve the name 

But mine was like a lava flood 

That boils in ^Etna's breast of flame. 



12 



THE GIAOUR. 



I cannot prate in puling strain 
Of ladye-love, and beauty's chain: 

If changing cheek, and scorching vein, 
Lips taught to writhe, but not complain 
If bursting heart, and madd'ning brain, 
And flaring deed, and vengeful steel, 
Anc all that I have felt, and feel, 
Betoken love— that love was mine, 
And shown by many a bitter sign. 
'Tis true, I could not whine nor sigh, 
I knew but to obtain or die. 
I die — but iirst I have possess'd, 
And come what may, I have been bless' d. 
Shall I the doom I sought upbraid? 
No — reft of all, yet undismay'd 
But for the thought of Leila slain, 
Give me the pleasure with the pain. 
So woidd I live and love again. 
I grieve, but not, my holy guide! 
For him who dies, but her who died; 
She sleeps beneath the wandering wave — 
Ah! had she but an earthly grave, 
This breaking heart and throbbing bead 
Should seek and share her narrow bed. 
She was a form of life and light, 
That, seen, became a part of sight; 
And rose, where er I turned mine eye, 
The Morning-star of Memory ! 

"Yes, Love indeed is light from heaven, 

A spark of that immortal fire 
With angels shared, by Alia given, 

To lift from earth oiir low desire. 
Devotion wafts the mind above, 
But Heaven itself descends in love ; 
A feeling from the Godhead caught, 
To wean from self each sordid thought, 
A Ray of him who form'd the whole; 
A Glory circling round the soul! 
I grant my love imperfect, all 
That mortals by the name miscall; 
Then deem it evil, what thou wilt; 
But say, oh say, hers was not guilt 
She was my life's unerring light . 
That quench' d, what beam shall break my night? 
Oh ! would it shone to lead me still, 
Although to death or deadliest ill ! 
Why marvel ye, if they who lose 

This present joy, this future hope, 

No more with sorrow meekly cope ; 
Tn phrensy then their fate accuse : 
In madness do those fearful deeds 

That seem to add but guilt to woe? 
i'tas ! the breast that inly bleeds 

Hath nought to dread from outward blow; 



Who falls Lorn all hv k*\ows of bliss, 
Cares little iato what aby^s. 
Fierce, as the gloomy vrn'me's now 

To thee, old i/ian, my destit* appear 
T i ead abhorrence on thy bn -w , 

And this too was I born to v e*. r ! 
T is true, that, like that bird ot *re - . 
With havock have I mark'd m/ v -y 
_Sut this was taught me by the dovt, 
To die — and know no second love, 
'.i'his lesson yet hath man to learn, 
Taught by the thing he dares to spun* 
VLe bird that sings within the brake, 
I. it swan that swims upon the lake, 
IA ? mate, and one alone, will take. 
A»V Lit the fool still prone to range, 
An.l .'ueer on all who cannot change, 
Parm e bis jest with boasting boys; 
I en\y ic-t his varied joys, 
But do «»i such feeble, heartless man, 
Less than yon solitary swan ; 
Far, far i»ii' , aih the shallow maid 
He left belfe\ -, ng and betray'd. 
Such shame et .?a"-t was never mine — 
Leila ! each thought was only thine ! 
My good, my gu'h, my weal, my woe, 
My hope on high — irv all bolow 
Earth holds no other like to thee, 
Or, if it doth, in vain foi me: 
For worlds I dare not vi«vv 'Jie dame 
Resembling thee, yet not the same. 
The very crimes that mar my youth, 
This bed of death — attest my truth ! 
'T is all too late — thou wert, thou art 
The cherish' d madness of my heart .' 



" And she was lost — and yet I breathed. 

But not the breath of human life: 
A serpent round my heart was wreathed, 

And stung my every thought to strife. 
Alike all time, abhorred all place, 
Shuddering I shrunk from Nature's face 
Where eveiy hue that charm'd before 
The blackness of my bosom wore. 
The rest thou dost already know, 
And all my sins, and half my woe. 
But talk no more of penitence; 
Thou see'st I soon shall part from henc* 
And if thy holy tale were true, 
The deed that's done canst thou undo? 
Think me not thankless — but this grief 
Looks not to priesthood for relief. 
My soul's estate in secret guess- 
But would'st thou pity more, say If a*. 



THE GIAOUR. 



13 



When thau canst bid my Leila live. 
Then will I sue thee to forgive; 
Then plead my cause in that high place 
Where purchased masses proffer grace. 
Go, when the hunter's hand hath rung 
From forest-cave her shrieking young, 
And calm the lonely lioness 
But soothe not — mock not my distress! 



In earlier days, and calmer hours, 

When heart with heart delights to bleni, 
Where bloom my native valley's bowers, 

I had — Ah! have I now? — a friend! 
To him this pledge I charge thee send, 

Memorial of a youthful vow; 
I would remind him of my uid: 

Though souls absorb' d like mine allow 
Brief thought to distant friendship's claim, 
Vet dear to him my blighted naaie. 
T is strange — he prophesied my doom, 

And I have smiled — I then could smile — 
When Prudence would his voice assume, 

And warn — I reck'd not what — the while : 
But now remembrance whispers o'er 
Those accents scarcely mark'd before. 
Say — that his bodings came to pass, 

And he will start to hear their truth, 

And wish his words had not been sooth: 
Tell him, unheeding as I was, 

Througn many a busy bitter scene 

Of all our golden youth had been, 
fn pain, my faltering tongue had tried 
To bless his memory ere I died ; 
But Heaven in wrath would turn away, 
If Guilt should for the guiltless pray. 
I do not ask him not to blame, 
Too gentle he to wound my name ; 
And what have I to do with fame? 
I do not ask him not to mourn, 
Such cold request might sound like scorn; 
And what, than friendship's manly tear 
May better grace a brother's bier? 
But bear this ring, his own of old, 
And tell him — what thou dost behold ! 
The wither'd frame, the ruin'd mind, 
The wrack by passion left oshini, 
A shrivell'd scro.i, a scatter'd leaf, 
Sear'd by the autumn blast of grief! 



"Tell me no more of fancy's gleam, 
No, father, no, 'tw r as not a dream; 
Alas! the dreamer first must sleep, 
1 only watch'd, and wish'd to weep ; 



But could not, for my burning brow 

Throbb'd to the very brain as now: 

I wish'd but for a single tear, 

As something welcome, new, and dear; 

I wish'd it then, I wish it still; 

Despair is stronger than my will. 

Waste not thine orison, despair 

Is mightier than thy pious prayer: 

I would not, if I might, be blest; 

I want no paradise, but rest. 

Twas then, I tell thee, father! then 

I saw her; yes, she lived again; 

And shining in her white symar, 45 

As through yon pale gray cloud the star 

Which now T gaze on, as on her, 

Who look'd and looks far lovelier; 

Dimly I view its trembling spark; 

To-morrow's night shall be more darx ; 

And I, before its rays appear, 

That lifeless thing the living fear. 

I wander, father ! for my soul 

Is fleeting towards the final goal. 

I saw her, friar! and I rose 

Forgetful of our former woes ; 

And rushing from my couch, I dart, 

And clasp her to my desperate heart; 

I clasp — what is it that I clasp? 

No breathing form within my grasp. 

No heart that beats reply to mine, 

Yet, Leila ! yet the form is thine ! 

And art thou, dearest, changed so much, 

As meet my eye, yet mock my touch? 

Ah! were thy beauties e'er so cold, 

I care not ; so my arms enfold 

The all they ever wish'd to hold. 

Alas ! around a shadow prest, 

They shrink upon my lonely breast; 

Yet still 'tis there! In silence stands. 

And beckons with beseeching hands! 

With braided hair, and bright-black eye— 

I knew 'twas false, she could not die ! 

But he is dead ! within the dell 

I saw him buried where he fell ; 

He comes not, for he cannot break 

From earth; why then art thou awake? 

They told me wild waves roll'd above 

The face I view, t'..e form I love; 

They told me — 'twas a hideous tale! 

I 'd tell it, but my tongue would fail : 

P true, and from thine ocean-cave 

Thou com'st to claim a calmer grave; 

Oh! pass thy dewy fingers o'er 

This brow that then will burn no more; 

Or place them on my hopeless heart • 

But, shape or shade ; whate'er thou art, 

In mercy ne'er again depart ' 



u 



THE GIAOUR. 



Or farther with thee bear my soul 
Thau winds can watt or waters roll ! 



And, save the cross above my head, 
Be neither name nor emblem spread, 
By prying stranger to be read, 
Or stay the passing pilgrim's tread. '■"* 



4 Such is my name, and such my tale 
Confessor! to thy secret ear 

i breathe the sorrows I bewail, 

And thank thee for the generous tear 

This glazing eye could never shed. 

Ttesi lay roe with the humbl&st da&i, 



Ke pass'd — nor of his name and ra&, 
Hath left a token or a trace, 
Save what the father must not say 
Who shrived him on his dying day-* 
This broken tale was all we knew 
Of bar hs leved, or nisi he slew. 



K\)t Brtfce of 8u»oos ; 

A TURKISH TALE.i 



1 Had we never loved so kindly, 
Had we never loved so blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted." 

BUBKl 



tEfce 'iStftic of &bgtfos.! 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



J now ye the land where the cypress and 

myrtle [clime, 

Are emblems of deeds that axe done in their 

Where tne rage of the vulture, the love of the 

turtle, 
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? 
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams 

ever shine: 
Where the light wings of Zeohyr, oppress'd 

with perfume, 
Waxfainto'erthegardensofGql 3 in her bloom; 
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit, 
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute : 
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of 

the sky, 
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie, 
And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye ; 
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they 

twine, 
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine? 
T is the clime of the East ; 't is the land of the 

Sun — 
Can he smile on such deeds as his children 

have done ? 
Oh ! wild as tnc accents of lovers' farewell 
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales 

which they tell. 



Begirt with many . gallant si are, 
Apparell'd as becouvj the brave, 
Awaiting each his lord's behest 
To guide his steps, or guard his rest. 
Old Giaffir sate in his Divan: 

Deep thought was in his aged ey% 
And though the face of Mussulmar 

Not oft betrays to standers by 
The mind within, well skill'd to hide 
All bat unconquerable pride, 
His pensive cheek and pondering br rw 
Did more than he was wont avow. 



" Let the chamber be clear'd." — The train d»» 

appear'd — 
" Now call me the chief of the Haram guard.' 
With Giaffir is none but his only son, 

And the Nubian awaiting the sire's award. 
" Haroun — when all the crowd that wait 
Are pass'd beyond the outer gate, 
(Woe to the head whose eve beheld 
My child Zuleika's face unveil'd!) 
Hence, lead my daughter from her tower ; 
Her fate is lix'd this very hour: 
Yet not to her repeat my thought ; 
By me alone be duty taught!" 

" Pacha ! to hear is to obey." 
No more must slave to despot say — 
Then to the tower had ta'en his way, 
But here young Selim silence brake, 

First lowly rendering reverence meet; 
And downcast look'd, and gently spake, 

Still standing at the Pacha's feet; 
For son of Moslem must expire, 
Kre dare to sit before his sire! 



16 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



•' Father! for fear that thou shouldst chide 
My sister, or her sable guide, 
Know — for the fault, if fault there be, 
Was mine, then fall thy frowns on me — 
So lovelily the morning shone, 

That — let the old and weary sleep — 
I could not ; and to view alone 

The fairest scenes of land and deep, 
With none to listen and reply 
To thoughts with which my heart beat high 
Were irksome — for whate'er my mood, 
In sooth I love not solitude; 
I on Zuleika's slumber broke, 

And, as thou knowest that for me 

Soon turns the haram's grating key, 
Before the guardian slaves awoke 
We to the cypress groves had flown, 
And made earth, main, and heaven oui 

own! 
There linger' d we, beguiled too long 
With Mejnoun's tale, or Sadi's song; 4 
Till I, who heard the deep tambour 5 
Beat thy Divan's reproaching hour, 
To thee, and to D^y duty true, 
Warn'd by th" sound, to greet thee flew. 
But the;^ Zuleika wanders yet — 
Nay, Father, rage not — nor forget 
That none can pierce that secret bower 
But those who watch the women's tower." 



" Son of a slave " — the Pacha said — 
"From unbelieving mother bred, 
Vain were a father's hope to see 
Aught that beseems a man in thee. 
Thou, when thine arm should bend the 
bow, 
And hurl the dart, and curb the steed, 
Thou, Greek in soul if not in creed, 
Must pore where babbling waters flow, 
And watch unfolding roses blow. 
Would that yon orb, whose matin glow 
Thy listless eyes so much admire, 
Would lend thee something of his fire ! 
Thou, who would' st see this battlement 
By Christian cannon piecemeal rent: 
Nay, tamely view old Stambol's wall 
Before the dogs of Moscow fall, 
Nor strike one stroke for life and death 
Against the curs of Nazareth ! 
Go— let thy less than woman's hand 
Assume the distaff — not the brand. 
But, Haroun! — to my daughter speed: 
And hark — of thine own head take heed— 
If thus Zuleika oft takes wing — 
Thou see'st yen bow — it hath a string ' " 



No sound from Selhn's lip was heard, 

At least that met old Giafhr's ear, 
But every frown and every word 
Pierced keener than a Christian's sworn. 

" Son of a slave ! — reproach' d with fear 

Those gibes had cost another dear. 
Son of a slave ! — and who my sire ? " 

Thus held his thoughts their dark career, 
And glances ev'n of more than ire 

Flash forth, then faintly disappear. 
Old Giaftir gazed upon his son 

And started ; for within his eye 
He read how much his wrath had done; 
He saw rebellion there begun: 

" Come hither, boy — what, no reply? 
I mark thee — and I know thee too ; 
But there be deeds thou dar'st not do: 
But if thy beard had manlier length, 
And if thy hand had skill and strength, 
I 'd joy to see thee break a lance, 
Albeit against my own perchance." 

As sneeringly these accents fell 
On Selim's eye he fiercely gazed : 

That eye return'd him glance for glance. 
And proudly to his sire's was raised, 

Till Giafiir's quail' d and shrunk askanc* 
And why — he felt, but durst not tell. 
" Much I misdoubt this wayward boy 
Will oiiq day woi'k me more annoy : 
I never loved him from his birth, 
And — but his arm is little worth. 
And scarcely in the chase could cope 
With timid fawn or antelope, 
Far less would venture into strife 
Where man contends for fame and life— 
I would not trust that look or tone : 
No — nor the blood so near my own. 
That blood — he hath not heard — no more— 1 
I'll watch him closer than before. 
He is an Arab 6 to my sight, 
Or Christian crorching in the fight- 
But hark ! — I hear Zuleika's voice; 

Like Houris' hymn it. meets mine ear 
She is the offspring of my choice ; 

Oh ! more than ev'n her mother dear, 
With all to hope, and nought, to fear— 
My Peri! ever welcome here! 
Sweet, as the desert fountain's wave, 
To lips just cool'd in time to save — 

Such' to my longing sight art thou; 
Nor can they waft to Mecca's shrine 
More thanks for life, than I for thine, 

Who blest thv birth, and bless thee now." 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



17 



Fair, as the first that Cell of womankind, 
When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling, 

Whose image then was stamp'd upon her 
mind — [ing 

But once beguil'd — and ever more beguil- 
Duzzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision 
To Sorrow's phantom-peopled slumber given, 
When heart meets heart again in dreams Ely- 
si an 
And paints the lost on Earth revived in 
Heaven ; 
Soft as the memory of buried love; [above; 
Pure, as the prayer which Childhood wafts 
Was she — the daughter of that rude old Chief, 
Who met the maid with tears — but not of grief. 

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay 
To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray? 
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight 
Faints into dimness with its own delight, 
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess 
The might — the majesty of Loveliness ? 
Such was Zuleika — such around her shone 
The nameless charms unmark d by her alone; 
The light of love, the purity of grace, 
The mind, the Music breathing from her face, 
The heart whose softness harmonized the 

whole — 
And, oh ! that eye was in itself a Soul ! 

Her graceful arms in meekness bending 
Across her gently-budding breast ; 

At one kind word those arms extending 
To clasp the neck of him who blest 
His child caressing and carest, 
Zuleika came — and Giaftir felt 
His purpose half within him melt : 
Not that against, her fancied weal 
His heart though stern could ever feel ; 
Affection chain' d her to that heart; 
Ambition tore the links apart. 



" Zuleika ! child of gentleness ! 
How dear this very day must tell, 

When I forget my own distress, 
In losing what I love so well, 
To bid thee with another dwell: 
Another! and a braver man 
Was never seen in battle's van. 

We Moslem reck not much of blood ; 
But yet the line of Carasman" 

Unchanged, unchangeable hath stood 
First of the bold Timariot bands 

That won and well can keep their lands 



Enough that he who cornea to woo 

Is kinsman of the Bey Oglou : 

His years need scarce a thougl t employ . 

I would not have thee wed a boy. 

And thou shalt have a noblo dower: 

And his and my united power 

Will laugh to scorn the death-firman, 

Which others tremble but to scan. 

And teach the messenger 8 what fate 

The bearer of such boon may wait. 

And now thou know'st thy father's will; 

All that thy sex hath need to know . 
'T was mine to teach obedience still — 

The way to love, thy lord may show." 



In silence bow'd the virgin's head ; 

And if her eye was filled with tears 
That stifled feeling dare not shed, 
And changed her cheek from pale to red, 

And red to pale, as through her ears 
Those winged words like arrows sped, 

What could such be but maiden fears ? 
So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, 
Love half regrets to kiss it dry ; 
So sweet the blush of Bashfulnesa. 
Even Pity scarce can wish it Kss ; 

Whate'er it was the sire forgot ; 

Or if remember'd, mark'd it not; 

Thrice clapp'd his hands, and call'd his steed, 
Resign'd his gem-adorn'd chibouque,* 

And mounting featly for the mead, 
With Maugrabee 11 and Mamaluke, 
His way amid his Delis took, 12 

To witness many an active deed 

With sabre keen, or blunt jerreed. 

The Kislar only and his Moors 

Watch well the Haram's massy doom 



His head was leant upon his hand, 

His eye look'd o'er the dark blue wata 
That swiftly glides and gently swells 
Between the winding Dardanelles; 
But yet he saw nor sea nor strand, 
Nor even his Pacha's turban' d band 

Mix in the game of mimic slaughter, 
Careering cleave the folded fel t l ^ 
With sabre stroke right sharply dealt ; 
Nor mark'd the javelin-darting crowd, 
Nor heard their OllahsH wild and loud — 
He thought but of old Giaffir's daughter 



No word fro 1 Selim's bosom broke ; 
One sigh Zu jika's thought benpoke : 



18 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



StiH gazed he through the lattice grate 
Pale, mute, and mournfully sedate. 
'I'd him Zuleikas eye was tum'd, 
But little from his aspect learn'd; 
Equal her grief, yet not the same ; 
Her heart confess' d a gentler flame: 
But yet that heart, alarnr'd or weak, 
She knew not why, forbade to speak. 
Yet speak she must — but when essay? 
"How strange he thus should turn away ! 
Not thus we e'er before have met; 
Not thus shall be our parting yet." 
Thrice paced she slowly througn tfte room. 

And watelt'd his eye — it still was fix'd ■ 

She snatch' d the urn wherein was mix d 
The Persian Atar-gul's 15 perfume, 
And sprinkled all its odours o'er 
The pictured roof 1 *' and marble floor: 
The drops, that through his glittering vest 
The playful girl's appeal address' d. 
Unheeded o'er his bosom flew, 
As if that breast were marble too. 
"What, sullen yet? it must not be-- 
Oh! gentle Selim, this from thee!" 
She saw in curious order set 

The fairest flowers of eastern land — 
"He lov'd them once ; may touch ijiem yet, 

If ofler'd by Zuleika's hand." 
The childish thought was hardly breathed 
Before tire rose was pluck'd and wreathed j 
The next fond moment saw her seat 
Her fairy form at Selim's feet: 
" This rose to calm my brother's cares 
A message from the Bulbul bears ; 
It says to-night he will prolong 
For Selim's ear his sweetest song; 
And though his note is somewhat sad, 
He '11 try for once a strain more glad, 
With some faint hope his alter'd lay 
May sing these gloomy thoughts away. 



What ! not receive my foolish flower ? 

Nay then I am indeed unblest: 
On me can thus thy forehead lower? 

And know' st thou not who loves thee best. 
Oh, Selim dear! oh, more than dearest! 
Say, is it me thou hat' st or fearest? 
Come, lay thy head upon my breast, 
And I will kiss thee into rest. 
Since words of mine, and songs must, fail, 
Ev'n from my fabled nightingale 
I knew our sire at times was stern, 
But this from thee had yet to learn ■ 
Too well 1 know he loves thee not ; 
ttut is Zuleika's love forgot? 



Ah. deem I right? the Pacha's j;lati — 
This kinsman Bey of Carasman 
Perhaps may prove some foe of thine: 
If so, I swear by Mecca's shrine, 
If shrines that ne'er approach allow 
To woman's step admit her vow, 
Without thy free consent, command, 
The Sultan should not have my hand . 
Think'st thou that I could bear to part 
With thee, and learn to halve my heart? 
Ah! were I sever'd from thy side, 
Where were thy friend — and who my guide 
Years have not seen, Time shall not see 
The horn that tears my soul from thee : 
Even Azrael 17 , from his deadly quiver 

When flies that shaft, and fly it must, 
That parts all else, shall doom for ever 

Our hearts to undivided dust ' " 



He lived — he breathed — he moved — he felt; 
He raised the maid from where she knelt; 
His trance was gone — his keen eye shone 
With thoughts that long in darkness dwelt; 
With thoughts that bum — in rays that melt. 
As the stream late conceal'd 

By the fringe of its willows, 
When it rushes reveai'd 

In the light of its billows; 
As the bolt bursts on high 

Prom the black cioud that bound it 
Flash' d the soul of that eye 

Through the long lashes round it 
A war-horse at the trumpet's sound, 
A lion roused by heedless hound, 
A tyrant waked to sudden strife 
By graze of ill-directed knife, 
Starts not to more convulsive life 
Than he, who heard that vow, dispiay'd, 
And all, before repress'd, betray'd ; 
" Now thou art mine, for ever mine, 
With life to keep, and scarce with life resign 
Now thou art mine, that sacred oath. 
Though sworn by one, hath bound is both 
Yes, fondly, wisely bast thou done; 
That vow hath saved more heads than ozw 
But blench not thou — thy simplest tress 
Claims mure from me than tenderness; 
I would not wrong the slenderest, hair 
That clusters round thy forehead fair, 
For all the treasures buried far 
Within the caves of Istakar. 18 
This morning clouds upon me lower' d, 
Reproaches on my head were shower'd, 
And Giaflir almost call d me coward ! 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



19 



Now I have motive to be brave ; 

The son of his neglected slave, 

Nay, start not, 'twas the term he gave, 

May show, though little ant to vaunt, 

A heart his words nor deeds can daunt. 

His son, indeed! — yet, thanks to thee, 

Perchance I am, at least shall be; 

But let our plighted secret vow 

Be only known to us as now. 

I know the wretch who dares demand 

From Giaffir thy reluctant hand ; 

More ill-got wealth, a meaner soul 

Holds not a Musselim's 19 control: 

Was he not bred in Egripo?20 

A viler race let Israel show; 

But let that pass — to none be told 

Our oath ; the rest shall time unfold. 

To me and mine leave Osman Bey; 

I 've partisans for peril's day : 

Think not I am what I appear ; 

I 've arms, and friends, and vengeance near." 



Think not thou art what thou appearest! 

My Selim, thou art sadly changed: 
This mom I saw thee gentlest, dearest; 

But now thon'rt from thyself estranged 
My love thou surely knew'st before, 
It ne'er was less, nor can be more. 
To see thee, hear thee, near thee stay, 

And hate the night I know not why, 
Save that we meet not but by day ; 

With thee to live, with thee to die, 

I dare not to my hope deny : 
Thy check, thine eyes, thy lips to kiss, 
Like this — and this — no more than this; 
For, Alia ! sure thy lips are flame : 

What fever in thy veins is flushing? 
My own have nearly caught the same, 

At least I feel my cheek too blushing. 
To soothe thy sickness, watch thy health, 
Partake, but never waste thy wealth, 
Or stand with smiles unmurmuring by, 
And lighten half thy poverty; 
Do all but close thy dying eye, , 
For that I could not live to try; 
To these alone my thoughts aspire : 
More can I do? or thou require? 
But, Selim, thou must answer why 
We need so much of mystery? 
The cause I cannot dream nor tell, 
But be it, since thou say'st 't is well ; 
Yetwhatthoumean'stby ' arms and'friends. 
Beyond my weaker sense extends. 



I meant that Giaffir shou.d have heard 

The very vow I plighted thee; 
His wrath would not revoke my word: 

But surely he would leave me free. 

Gan this fond wish seem strange in me, 
To be what I have ever been? 
What other hath Zuleika seen 
From simple childhood's earliest hour? 

What other can sue seek to see 
Than thee, companion of her bower, 

The partner of her infancy ? 
These cherish'd thoughts, wHh life begun, 

Say, why must I no more avow ? 
What change is wrought to make me shun 

The truth; my pride, and thine till now } 
To meet the gaze of stranger's eyes 
Our law, our creed, our God denies; 
Nor shall one wandering thought cf mine 
At such, our Prophet's will, repine: 
No! happier made by that decree! 
He left me all in leaving thee. 
Deep were my anguish, thus compell'd 
To wed with one I ne'er beheld : 
This wherefore should I not reveal? 
Why wilt thou urge me t( conceal? 
I know the Pacha's haugh mood 
To thee hath never boded gcod ; 
And he so often storms at nought, 
Alia ! forbid that e'er he ought! 
And why I know not, but within 
My heart concealment weighs like sin. 
If then such secrecy be crime, 

And such it feels while lurking here; 
Oh, Selim ! tell me yet in time, 

Nor leave me thus to thoughts of fear 
Ah ! yonder see the Tchocadir 21 , 
My father leaves the mimic war; 
I tremble now to meet his eye — 
Say, Selim, canst thou tell me why ?' 

xiv. 
Zuleika — to thy tower's retreat 
Betake thee — Giaffir I can greet; 
And now with him I fain must prate 
Of firmans, impost, levies, state. 
There 's fearful news from Danube's banks. 
Our Vizier nobly thins his ranks. 
For which the Giaour may give him thanks ! 
Our Sultan hath a shorter way 
Such costly triumph to repay. 
But, mark me, when the twilight drum 

Hath wani'd the troops to food and slee^ 
Unto thy cell will Selim come: 

Then softly from the Haram creep 

Where we may wander by the deep. 

Our garden-battlements are steep ; 

c 2 



20 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Nor these will rash intruder climb 
To list our words, or stint our time; 
And if he doth, I want not steel 
Which some have felt, and more may feei. 
Then shall thou learn of Selim more 
Than thou hast heard or thought before : 
Trust mc, Zuleika — fear not me ! 
Thou know' st I hold a haram key." 

" Fear thee, my Sc'Iim ! ne'er till now 
Did word like this — " 

" Delay not thoa ; 
I keep the key — and Haroun's guard 
Have some, and hope of more reward 
To-night, Zuleika, thou shalt hear 
My tale, my purpose, and my fear- 
I am not, love ! what I appear." 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



The winds are high on Helle's waves, 

As on that night of stormy water 
When Love, who sent, forgot to save 
The young, the beautiful, the brave, 

The lonely hope of Sestos' daughter. 
Oh ! when alone along the sky 
Her turret-torch was blazing high, 
Though rising gale, and breaking foam, 
And shrieking sea-birds warn'd him home; 
And clouds aloft and tides below, 
With signs and sounds, forbade to go, 
He could not see, he would not hear, 
Or sound or sign foreboding fear; 
His eye but saw that light of love, 
The only star it hail'd above ; 
His ear but rang with Hero's song, 
" Ye waves, divide not lovers long P* — 
That tale is okl, but love anew 
May nerve young hearts to prove as true. 

H. 

The winds aie high, and Helle's tide 
Rolls darkly heaving to the main ; 
And Night's descending shadows hide 

That field with blood bedew'd in vain, 
The desert of old Priam's pride , 
The tombs, sole relics of his reign, 
111 — save immortal dreams that coidd beguil 
Che blind old man of Scio's vocKy isle! 



Oh ! yet — foi there my steps hare been ; 

These feet, have press'd the sacred shores 
These limbs that buoyant wave hath borne-— 
Minstrel ! with thee to muse, to mourn, 

To trace again those fields of yore, 
Believing every hillock green 

Contains no fabled hero's ashes, 
And that around the undoubted scene 

Thine own "broadHellespont' ' still d ashes, 
Be long my lot! and cold were he 
Who there could gaze denying thee ! 



The night hath closed on Helle's stream. 

Nor yet hath risen on Ida's hill 
That moon, which shone on his high theme: 
No warrior chides .her peaceful beam, 

But conscious shepherds bless it still. 
Their flocks are grazing on the mound 

Of him who felt the Dardan's arrow; 
That mighty heap of gather'd ground 
Which Ammon's son ran proudly round, 8 * 
By nations raised, by menarchs crown'd, 

Is now a lone and nameless barrow ! 

Within — thy dwelling-place how narrow 
Without — can only strangers breathe 
The name of him that was beneath: 
Dust long outlasts the storied stone; 
But Thou — thy veiy dust is gone! 



Late, late to-night will Dian cheer 

The swain, and chase the boatman's feai ■ 

Till then — no beacon on the cliff 

May shape the course of struggling skiff; 

The scatter' d lights that skirt the bay, 

All, one by one, have died away; 

The only lamp of this lone hour 

Is glimmering in Zuleika's tower. 

Yes ! there is light in that lone chamber, 

And o'er her silken Ottoman 
Are thrown the fragment beads of amber, 

O'er which her fairy fingers ran; ^ 
Near these, with emerald rays beset, 
(How could she thus that gem forget?) 
Her rftother's sainted amulet, 24 
Whereon engraved the Koorsee text, 
Cou.d smooth this life, and win the nest; 
And by her comboloio 2 ' lies 
A Koran of illumined dyes; 
And many a bright emblazon'd rhyme 
By Persian scribes redeem'd from time; 
And o'er those scrolls, not oft so mute, 
Reclines ner now neglected lute ; 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



2] 



And round her lump of fretted gold 

Bioom flowers in urns of China's mould ; 

The richest work of Iran's loom, 

And Sheeraz. tribute of perfume , 

All that an eye or sense delight 
Are gather' d in that gorgeous room: 
But yet it hath an air of gloom. 

She, of" this Peri cell the sprite, 

What doth she hence, and on so rude a night? 



Wrapt in the darkest sable vest, 

Which none save noblest Moslem wear, 
To guard from winds of heaven the breast 

As heaven itself to Selim dear, 
With cautious steps the thicket threading, 

And stalling oft, as through the glade 

The gust its hollow moanings made, 
Till on the smoother pathway treading, 
More free her timid bosom beat, 

The maid pursued her silent guide ; 
And though her terror urged retreat, 

How could she quit her Selim's side? 

How teach her tender lips to chide? 



What may this mean ? she tum'd to see 
Her Sehm — " Oh ! can this be he?" 



His robe of pride was thrown aside, 

His brow no high-crown' d turban bore, 
But in its stead a shawl of red, 

Wreathed lightly round, his temples won 
That dagger, on whose hilt the gein 
Were worthy of a diadem, 
No longer glitter' d at his waist, 
Where pistols unadorn'd were braced ; 
And from his belt a sabre swung, 
And from his shoulder loosely hung 
The cloak of white, the thin capote 
That decks the wandering Candiote: 
Beneath — his golden plated vest 
Clung like a cuirass to his breast; 
The greaves below his knee that wound 
Withsilvery scales were sheathed and bo*. ■< 
But were it not that high command 
Spake in his eye, and tone, and hand, 
All that a careless eye could see 
In him was some young Galiongee. 86 



They reach'd at length a grotto, hewn 

By nature, but enlarged by ait, 
Where oft her lute she wont to tune, 
And oft her Koran eonn'd apart; 
And oft in youthful reverie 
She dream'd what Paradise might be : 
Where woman's parted soul shall go 
Her Prophet had disdain'd to show; 
But Selim's mansion was secure, 
Nor deem'd she, could he long endure 
His bower in other worlds of bliss, 
Without her, most beloved in this ! 
Oh! who so dear with him could dwell? 
What Houri soothe him half so well? 

VIII. 

Since last she visited the spot 

Some change seem'd wrought within the grot 

It might be only that the night 

Disguised things seen by better light : 

That brazen lamp but dimly threw 

A ray of no celestial hue ; 

But in a nook within the cell 

Her eye on stranger objects fell. 

There amis were piled, not such as wield 

The turban'd Delis in the field ; 

But brands of foreign blade and hilt, 

And one was red — perchance with guilt! 

A.h! how without can blood be spilt? 

A cup too on the board was set 

That did not seem to hold sherbet. 



" I said I was not what I seem'd; 

And now thou see'st my words were tm* 
I have a tale thou hast not dream'd, 
If sooth — its truth must others rue. 
My story now 'twere vain to hide, 
I must not see thee Osman's biide: 
But had not thine own lips declared 
How much of that young heart I shared, 
I could not, must not, yet have shown 
The darker secret of my own. 
In this I speak not now of love; 
That, let time, truth, and peril prove- 
But first — Oh ! never wed another — 
Zuleika! I am not thy .brother!" 

XI. 

" Oh ! not my brother ! — yet unsay — 

God! am I left alone on earth 
To mourn — I dare not curse — the day 

That saw my solitary birth? 
Oh ! thou wilt love me now no more ! 

My sinking heart foreboded ill; 
But know me all I was before, 

Thy sister — friend — Zuleika still 
Thou led' st me here perchance to kill; 

If thou hast cause for vengeance, sc* 
My breast is offer' d — take thy fill ! 

Far better with the dead to be 

Than live thus nothing now to the* ■ 
r erhaps far worse, for now I know 
Why Giafiir always seeni'd thy foe* 



22 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



And Zf alas ! am Giaffir's child, 
For whom thou wert contemn' d, reviled. 
If not thy sister — would' st thou save 
My life, oh ! hid me be thy slave ! " 



" My slave. Zuleika ! — nay, I 'm thine : 

But, gende love, this transport calm, 
Thy lot shall yet be link'd with mine; 
I swear it by our Prophet's shrine, 

And be that thought thy sorrow's balm. 
So may the Koran 27 verse display' d 
Upon its steel direct my blade, 
In danger's hour to guard ut both, 
As I preserve that awful oath! 
The name in which thy heart hath prided 

Must change; but, my Zuleika, know, 
That tie is widen'd, not divided, 

Although thy Sire's my deadliest foe. 
My father was to Giaffir all 

That Seiim late was deem'd to thee; 
That brother wrought a brother's fall, 

But spared, at least, my infancy; 
And lull'd me with a vain deceit 
That yet a like return may meet. 
He rear'd me, not with tender help, 

But like the nephew of a Cain ; 28 
He watch'd me like a lion's whelp, 

That gnaws and yet may break his chain. 

My father's blood in every vein 
Is boiling ; but for thy dear sake 
No present vengeance will I take ; 

Though here I must no more remain. 
But first, beloved Zideika! hear 
How G iadir wrought this deed of fear. 



"How first their strife to rancour grew, 

If love or envy made them foes, 
It matters little if I knew; 
In fiery spirits, slights, though few 

And thoughtless, will disturb repose. 
In war Abdallah's arm was strong, 
R.ertember'd yet in Bosniac song. 
And Paswan's 29 rebel hordes attest 
How little love they bore such guest: 
His death is all I need relate, 
The stern effect of Giaffir's hate; 
And hew my birth disclosed to me, 
Whate er beside it makes, hath made me free. 



" "When Paswan, after years of strife, 
At last for power, but first for life, 
I? Widin s walls too proudly sate, 
0»»f Pachas rallied round the stat«; 



Nor last nor least in high comn and, 
E ach brother led a separate band ; 
They gave their horsetails 30 to the wind, 

And mustering in Sophia's plain 
Their tents were pitch'd, their post assign'd j 

To one, alas! assign'd in vain! 
What need of words ? the deadly bow'i, 

By Giaffir's order drugg'd and given, 
With venom subtle as his soul, 

Dismissal Abdallah's hence to heaven 
Reclined and feverish in the bath, 

He, when the hunter's sport was up. 
But little deem'd a brother's wrath 

To quench his thirst had such a cup : 
The bowl a bribed attendant bore ; 
He drank one draught, 31 nor needed more 
If thou my tale, Zuleika, doubt, 
Call Haroun — he can tell it out. 

*▼. 

"The deed once done, and Paswan's feud 
In part suppress'd, though ne' er subdued, 

Abdallah's Pachalick was gain'd : — 
Thou know' st not what in our Divan 
Can wealth procure for worse than man— 

Abdallah's honours were obtain 'd 
By him a brother's murder stain' d ; 
T is true, the purchase nearly drain'd 
His ill got treasure, soon replaced. 
Would'st question whence? Survey thewasu 
And ask the squalid peasant how 
His gains repay his broiling brow ! — 
Why me the stem usurper spared, 
Why thus with me his palace shared, 
I know not. Shame, regret, remorse, 
And little fear from infant's force ; 
Besides, adoption as a son 
By him whom Heaven accorded none, 
Or some unknown cabal, caprice, 
Preserved me thus ; — but not in peace: 
He cannot curb his haughty mood, 
Nor I forgive a father's blood. 



* Within thy father's bouse are foes ; 

Not all who break his bread are true: 
To these should I my birth disclose, 

His days, his very hours were few : 
They only want a heart to lead, 
A hand to point them to the deed. 
But Haroun only knows, or knew 

This tale, whose close is almost nigh • 
He in Abdallah's palace grew, 

And held that post in his Serai 

Which holds he here — he saw him aie 
But what coultl single slavery do? 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



23 



Aveng* his lord ? alas ! too late ; 
Or save his son from such a fate? 
He chose the Last, and when elate 

With foes subdued, or friends betray'd, 
Proud Griaffir in high triumph sate, 
He led me helpless lo his gate, 

And not in vain it seems essay'd 

To save the life for which he pray'd. 
The knowledge of my birth secured 

From all and each, but most from me; 
Tims Giaffir's safety was ensured. 

Removed he too from Roumelie 
To tins our Asiatic side, 
Far from our seats by Danube's tide, 

"With none but Haroun, who retains 
Such knowledge — and that Nubian feels 

A tyrant's secrets are but chains, 
From which the captive gladly steals, 
And this and more to me reveals : 
Such still to guilt just Alia sends — 
Slaves, tools, accomplices — no friends ! 



XVII. 

"All this, Zuleika, harshly sounds; 

But harsher still my tale must be : 
Howe'er my tongue thy softness wounds, 

Yet I must prove all truth to thee. 

I saw thee start this garb to see, 
Yet is it one I oft have worn, 

And long must wear : this Galiongee, 
To whom thy plighted vow is sworn, 

Is leader of those pirate hordes, 

Whose laws and lives are on their swords ; 
To hear whose desolating tale • 
Would make thy waning cheek more pale: 
Those arms thou see'st my band have brought, 
The hands that wield are not remote ; 
This cup too for the rugged knaves 

Is fili'd — once quaffd, they ne'er repine : 
Our prophet might forgive the slaves; 

They 're only infidels in wine. 

XVIII. 

" What could I be? Proscribed at home, 
And taunted to a wish to roam ; 
And listless left — for Giaffir's fear 
Denied the courser and the spear — 
Though oft— Oh, Mahomet ! how oft !— 
In full Divan the despot scoffd, 
As if mu weak unwilling hand 
Refused the bridle or the brand : 
He ever went to war alone, 
And pent me here untried — unknown; 
To Haroun's care with women left, 
By hope unblest, of fame bereft. 



While thou — whose softness long endear! 
Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer' d — 
To Brusa's walls for safety sent, 
Awaitedst there the field's event. 
Haroun, who saw my spirit pining 

Beneath inaction's sluggish yoke, 
His captive, though with dread resigning, 

My thraldom for a season broke, 
On promise to return before 
The day when Giaffir's charge was o'er. 
'Tis vain — my tongue can not impart 
My almost drunkenness of heart, 
When first, this liberated eye 
Survey'd Earth, Ocean, Sun, and Sky, 
As if my spirit pierced them through, 
And all their inmost wonders knew! 
One word alone can paint to thee 
That more than feeling — I was Free! 
E'en for thy presence ceased to pine; 
The World — nay, Heaven itself was nn:>« 

XIX. 

The shallop of a trusty Moor 
Convey'd me from this idle shore; 
I long'd to see the isles that gem 
Old Ocean's purple diadem: 
I sought by turns, and saw them all j 35 

But when and where I join'd the crew 
With whom I 'm pledg'd to rise or fall, 

When all that we design to do 
Is done, 'twill then be time more meet 
To tell thee, when the tale 's complete. 

xx. 

* "T is true, they are a lawless brood, 
But rough in form, nor mild in mood ; 
And eveiy creed, and every race, 
With them hath found — may find a plr.ee 
But open speech, and ready hand, 
Obedience to their chiefs command; 
A soul for every enterprise, 
That never sees with terror's <wes : 
Friendship for each, and faith to all, 
And vengeance vow'd for those who fall, 
Have made them fitting instruments 
For more than ev'n my own intents. 
And some — and I have studied all 

Distinguished from the vulgar rank, 
But chiefly to my council call 

The wisdom of the cautious Frank — 
And some to higher thoughts aspire, 

The last of Lambro's 33 patriots there 

Anticipated freedom share : 
And oft around the cavern fire 
On visionary schemes debate, 
To snatch the Rayahs 84 from their fate. 
So let them easr their hearts with prctc 



24 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



Of equal rights, winch man ne'er knew; 

1 have a love foi freedom too. 
(iy\ let me like the ocean-Patriarch 33 roam, 
Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! 36 
My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, 
Are more than cities and Serais to me : 
Borne by my steed, or wafted by my sail, 
Across the desert, or before the gale, 
Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my 

prow ! 
But be the star that guides the wanderer. Thou ! 
Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark; 
The Dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 
Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ! 
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
Blest — as the Muezzin's strain from Mecca's 

Vvdll 

To pilgrims pure and prostrate at his call; 

Soft — as the melody of youthful flays, 

That steals the trembling tear of speechless 

praise ; 
Dear — as his native song to Exile's ears, 
Shall sound each tone thy long-loved voice 

endears. 
For thee in those bright isles is built a bower 
Blooming as Aden 3 ' in its earliest hour. 
A thousand swords.with Selim's heart and hand, 
Wait — wave — defend — destroy — at thy com- 
mand ! 
tfirt Dy my band, Zuleika at my side, 
The spoil of nations shall bedeck my bride. 
The Haram's languid years of listless ease 
Are well resign'd for cares — for joys like these . 
Not blind to fate, I see, where'er I rove, 
Unnumber'd perils, — but one only love ! 
Yet well my toils shall that fond breast repay, 
Though fortune frown, or falser friends betray. 
How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown; 
To thee be Selim's tender as thine own; 
To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
Blend every thought, do all — but disunite ! 
Once free, 't is mine our horde again toguide: 
Friends to each other, foes to aught beside: 
Yet there we follow but the bent assign' d 
By fatal Nature to man's warring kind : 
Mark ! where his carnage and his conquests 

cease ! 
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace ! 
1 like the rest must use my skill or strength. 
But ask no land beyond my sabre's length : 
Power sways but by division — her resource 
The Kes alternative of fraud or force ! 



Ours be the last ; in time deceit may come 
When cities cage us in a social home: 
There cv'n thy soul might err — how oft the heaj\ 
Corruption shakes which peril could not part 
And woman, more than man, when death or wo* 
Or even disgrace, would lay her lover low, 
Sunk in the lap of luxury will shame — 
Away suspicion ! — not Zuleika' s name! 
But life is hazard at the best ; ami here 
No more remains to win, and much to fear: 
Yes, fear ! — the doubt, the dread of losing thee, 
By Osman's power, and Giafnr's stem decree. 
Thatdread shall vanish with the favouring galet 
Which Love to-night hath promised to my sail: 
No danger daunts the pair his smile hath blest, 
Their steps still roving, but their hearts at rest. 
With thee all toils are sweet, each clime hath 

charms ; 
Earth — sea alike — our world within our anus* 
Ay — let the loud winds whistle o'er the aecK, 
So that those arms cling closer round my neck 
The deepest murmur of this lip shall be 
No sigh for safety, but a prayer for thee ! 
The war of elements no fears impart 
To Love, whose deadliest bane is human Art 
There lie the only rocks our course can check: 
Here moments menace — there are years oi 
wreck! [shapo! 

But hence ye thoughts that rise in Horror's 
This hour bestows, or ever bars escape. 
Few words remain of mine my tale to close 
Of thine but one to waft us from our foes ; 
Yea — foes — to me will Giaffir's hate decline f 
And is not Osman, who would part us, thine? 

XXI. 
"His head and faith from doubt and death 
Return' d in time my guard to save; 
Few heard, none told, that o'er the wave 
From isle to isle I roved the while : 
And since, though parted from my band, 
Too seldom now I leave the land, 
No deed they 've done, nor deed shall do, 
Ere I have heard and doom'd it too: 
I form the plan, decree the spoil, 
'T is fit I oftener share the toil. 
But now too long I 've held thine ear; 
Time presses, floats my bark, and here 
We leave behind but hate and fear. 
To-morrow Osman with his train 
Arrives — to-night must break thy chain : 
And would' st thou save that haughty Bey, 
Perchance, his life who gave thee thine, 
With me. this hour away — away ! 

But yet, though thou art plighted mine, 
Would'st thou recall thy willing tow, 
Anpall'd by truths imparted now, 



THE BRIDE OF -ABYDOS. 



25 



Hsre rest I -not to see thee wed 
But be that peril on my head ' ' 

XXII 

Zuleika. mute ami motionless, 

Stood like that statue of distress, 

When, her last hope for ever gone, 

The mother harden'd into .stone; 

All in the maid that eye could see 

Was but a younger Niobe 

But ere her lip, or even her eye, 

Essay'd to speak, or look reply, 

Beneath the garden's wicket porch 

Far flash' d on high a blazing torch ! 

Another — and another — and another — 

■ Oh ! fly — no more — yet now my more than 

brother!" 
Far, wide, through every thicket spread, 
The fearful lights are gleaming red ; 
Nor these alone — for each right hand 
Is ready with a sheathless brand. 
They part, pursue, return, and wheel 
With searching flambeau, shining steel; 
And last of all, his sabre waving, 
Stern Giaflir in his fury raving: 
And now almost they touch the cave — 
Oh ! must that grot be Selim's grave? 



Dauntless he stood — " T is come — soon 

past — 
One kiss, Zuleika — t is my last: 

But yet my band not far from shore 
May hear this signal, see the flash ; 
Yet now too lew — the attempt were rash : 

No matter — yet one effort more." 
Forth to the cavern mouth he stept; 

His pistol's echo rang on high, 
Zuleika started not, nor wept, 

Despair benumb'd her breast and eye ! — 
" They hear me not, or if they ply 
Their oars, 't is but to see me die ; 
That sound hath drawn my foes more nigh, 
Then forth my father's scimitar, 
Thou ne'er hast seen iess equal war ' 
Farewell, Zuleika ! — Sweet ! retire : 

Vet stay within — here linger safe, 

At thee his rage will only chafe. 
Stir not — lest even to thee perchance 
Seme erring blade or ball should glance 
Fear' st thou for him? — may I expire 
ll in this strife I seek thy sire! 
No — though by him that poison pour'd: 
No — though aguin he call me coward! 
But tamely shall I meet their steel? 
No — as each crest save his may feel ! " 



One bound he made, and gain'd the sand 

Already at his feet hath sunk 
The foremost of the prying band, 

A gasping head, a quivering trunk : 
Another falls — but round him close 
A swarming circle of his foes, 
From right to left his path he cleft, 

And almost met the meeting wave : 
His boat appears — not five oars length — 
His e( miracles strain with desperate strength* 

Oh ! are they yet in time to save ? 
His feet the foremost breakers lave ; 
His band are plunging in the bay, 
Their sabres glitter through the spray ; 
Wet — wild — unwearied to the strand 
They struggle — now they touch the land ! 
They come — 'tis but to add to slaughter — 
His heart's best bloochis on the water. 

xxv. 

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel, 

Or scarcely grazed its force to feel, 

Had Selim won, betray'd, beset, 

To where the strand and billows met: 

There as his last step left the land, 

And the last death-blow dealt his hand — 

Ah ! wherefore did he turn to look 

For her his eye but sought in vain? 
That pause, that fatal gaze he took, 

Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain 
Sad proof, in peril and in pain, 
How late will Lover's hope remain ' 
His back was to the dashing spray; 
Behind, but close, his comrades lay, 
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball — 
" So may the foes of Giailir fall ! " 
Whose voice is heard? whose 3arbine rang; 
Whose bullet through the night-air sang, 
Too nearly, deadly ai'n'd to err? 
T is thine — Abdallah's Murderer ! 
The father slowly rued thy hate, 
The son hath found a quicker fate: 
Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling, 
The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling — 
If aught his lips essay'd to groan, 
The rushing billows choked the tone ! 



Mora slowly rolls the clouds away ; 

Few trophies of the fight are there: 
The shouts that shook the midnight-bay 
Are silent ; but some signs of fray 

That strand of strife may bear, 



26 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



And fragments of each shiver u brand ; 
Steps stamp VI • and dash'd into the sand 
Tbn --Ant of many a struggling hand 

May there be mark'd ; nor far remote 

A broken torch, an oarless boat ; 
And tangled on the weeds tbat heap 
The beach where shelving to the deep 

There lies a white capote ! 
Tis rent in twain — one dark-red stain 
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain : 

But where is he who wore? 
Ye ! who would o'er his relics weep, 
Go, seek them where the surges sweep 
Their burthen round Sigieum's steep 

And cast on Lemnos' shore : 
The sea-birds shriek above the prey, 
O'er which their hungry beaks delay, 
As shaken on his restless pillow, 
His head heaves with the heaving billow; 
That hand, whose motion is not life, 
Yet feebly seems to menace strife, 
Flung by the tossing tide on high, 

Then levell'd with the wave ;i8 — 
What recks it, though that corse shall lie 

Within a living grave ? 
The bird that tears that prostrate form 
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm ; 
The only heart, the only eye 
Had Ved or wept to see him die, 
Had seen those scatter d limbs composed, 

And mourn" d above his turban-stone, 39 
That heart hath burst — that eye was closed— 

Yea — closed before his own! 

xxvir. 
By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! 
And woman's eye is wet — man's cheek is pale 
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race, 

Thy destined lord is come too late: 
He sees not — ne'er shall see thy face! 

Can he not hear 
The loud Wul-wulleh 40 warn his distant ear? 
^hy handmaids weeping at the gate, 
The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, 
The silent slaves with folded arms that wait, 
Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale, 

Tell him thy taL! 
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall ! 

That fearful moment when he left the cave 

Thy heart grew chill : 

He was thy hope — thy joy — thy love — thine 

all — [not save 

And that last thought on him thou could' st 

Sufficed to kill; 

Burst foith in one wild ay — and all was still. 

Peace to thj broken heart, and virgin jrrave! 



At! happy! but of life to lose the worst 
Tbat grief — though deep — though fatal — wa^ 

thy first ! 
Thrice happy ! ne'ei to feel nor fear the force 
Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, re- 
morse ! 
And, oh! that pang where more than madness 

lies! 
The worm that will not sleep — and never dies ; 
Thought of the gloomy day aud ghastiy 

night, 
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the 

light, 
That winds around, and tears the quivering 

heart ! 
Ah! wherefore not consume it — and depart! 
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! 
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head, 
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dosl 

spread ; 
By that same hand Abdallah — Selim ble« 
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief: 
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's 

bed, 
She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed, 
Thy Daughter 's dead ! 
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lcnclj 

beam, 
The Star hath set that shone on Helies 
stream. 
What quench' d its ray ? — the blood that thou 

hast shed! 
Hark ! to the hurried question of Despair: 
"Where is my child?" — an Echo answers— 
"Where? "41 



Within the place of thousand tombs 

That shine beneath, while dark above 
The sad but living cypress glooms, 

And withers not, though branch and V>*J 
Are stamp' d with an eternal grief, 

Like early unrequited Love, 
One spot exists, which ever blooms, 

Ev'n in that deadly grove — 
A single rose is shedding there 

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale : 
It looks as planted by Despair — 

So white — so faint — the slightest gale 
Might whirl the leaves on high ; 

And yet, though storms and blight assail 
And hands more rude than wintry sky 

May wring it from the stem — in vain- 

Tomorrow sees it bfrom again! 



THE BRIDE OF ABYDOS. 



27 



The stalk some spirit gently rears, 
And waters with celestial tears; 

For well may maids of Helle deem 
That this can he no earthly flower, 
Which mocks the tempest's withering hour, 
And buds unshelter'd by a bower; 
Nor droops, though spring refuse her shower, 

Nor woos the summer heam: 
To it the livelong night there sings 

A bird unseen — but not remote : 
Invisible his airy wings, 
But soft as harp that Houri strings 

His long entrancing note ! 
It were the Bidbul ; but his throat, 

Though mournful, pours not such a strain : 
For they who listen cannot leave 
The spot, but linger there and grieve, 

As if they loved in vain ! 
And yet so sweet the tears they shed, 
'T is sorrow so unmix'd with dread, 
They scarce can bear the morn to break 

That melancholy spell, 
And longer yet would weep and wake, 

He sings so wild and well ! 
But when the day-blush bursts from high 
E spires that magic melody. 



And some have been who could believe. 
(So fondly youthful dreams deceive, 

Yet harsh be they that blame,) 
That note so piercing and profound 
Will shape and syllable 42 its sound 

Into Zuleika's name. 
Tis from her cypress' summit heard, 
That melts in air the liquid word : 
T is from her lowly virgin earth 
That white rose takes its tender birth. 
There late was laid a marble stone ; 
Eve saw it placed — the Morrow gone? 
It. was no mortal arm that bore 
That deep fixed pillar to the shore ; 
For there, as Helle's legends tell, 
Next morn 't was found where Selim fell; 
Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave 
Denied his bones a holier grave : 

And there by night, reclined, 't is said, 
Is seen a ghastly turban'd head : 
And hence extended by the billow, 
'T is named the "Pirate-phantom'spillowi* 
Where first it lay that mourning -flower 
Hath flourished ; fiourisheth this hour, 
Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; 
A3 weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale 



W\)t Corsatr; 



A TALE. 



suoi pensieri in lui dormir non ponno." 

Tasso, Gerusalemme Liberata, canto x 



®f)e ODorsatr. 8 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



nessun maggior dolore, 



Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 

Neila iniseria, •" — Dakte. 



K O'ek the glad waters of the dark blue sea, 
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, 
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam, 
Survey our empire, and behold our home ! 
These are our realms, no limits to their sway— 
Gur flag the sceptre all who meet obey. 
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range 
From toil to rest, and joy in every change. 
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave! 
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave, 
Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease! 
Whom slumber soothes not — pleasure cannot 

please — 
Oh.who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried, 
And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide, 
The exulting sense — the pulse's maddening 

play, 
That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way ? 
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, 
And turn what some deem danger to delight ; 
That seeks what cravens shun with more than 

zeal, 
Ajxd where the feebler faint — can only feel — 



Feel — to the rising bosom's inmost core, 
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar? 
IS o dread of death — if with us die our foes- 
Save that it seems even duller than repose: 
Come when it will — we snatch the life of life — 
When lost — what recks it — by d isease or strife! 
Let tiim who crawls enamour' d of decay, 
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away; 
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied 

head ; 
Ours — the fresh turf, and not the feverish bed. 
While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul, 
Ours with one pang — one bound — escapes 

control. 
His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, 
And they who loath'd his life may gild his grave : 
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed, 
When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. 
For us, even banquets fond regret supply 
In the red cup that crowns our memory ; 
And the brief epitaph in danger's day, 
When those who wtn at length divide the prey, 
And cry, Remembrance saddening o'er each 

brow, 
How had the brave who fell exulted now!" 



Such were the notes that from the Pirate's isle, 
Around the kindling watch-fire rang the while : 
Such were the sounds that thrill' d the rocks 

along, 
And unto ears as rugged seem'd a song ! 
In scatter'd groups upon the golden sand, 
They game — carouse — converse — or whet the 

brand ; 
Select the arms — to each his blade assign, 
And careless eye the blood that dims its shine 



THE CORSAIR. 



29 



Repair the boat, replace the helm or oar, 
While others straggling muse along the shore; 
For the wild bird the busy springes set, 
Or spread beneath the sun the dripping net; 
Gaze where some distant sail a speck sup. '.ies, 
With all the thirsting eye of Enterprise ; 
Tell o'er the tales ot' many a night of toil, 
And marvel where they next shull seize a spoil : 
No matter where — their chief's allotment this ; 
Theirs, to believe no prey nor plan amiss. 
But who that Chief? hisnameon every shore 
Is famed and fear'd — they ask and know no 

more. 
With these he mingles not but to command ; 
Few are his words, but keen his eye and hand. 
Ne'er seasons he with mirth their jovial mess, 
But they forgive his silence for success. 
Ne'er for his lip the purpling cup they fill, 
That goblet passes him untasted still — 
And for his fare — the rudest of his crew 
Would that, in turn, have pass'd untasted too ; 
Earth's coarsest bread, the garden's homeliest 

roots, 
And scarce the summer luxury of fruits, 
His short repast in humbleness supply 
With all a hermit's board would scarce deny 
Buc while he shuns the grosser joys of sense, 
His mind seems nourished by that abstinence. 
" Steer to that shore ! " — they sail. " Do this ! " 

— 't is done • 
" Now form and follow me !" — the spoil is won. 
Thus prompt his accents and his actions still, 
And all obey and few inquire his will ; 
" "o such, brief answer and contemptuous eye 
Jonvey reproof, nor further deign reply. 



* A sail ! — a sail !" — a promised prize to Hope! 
Her nation — flag — how speaks the telescope? 
No prize, alas! — but yet a welcome sail: 
The blood-red signal glitters in the gale. 
Yes — she is ours — a home-returning bark — 
Blow fair, thou breeze ! — she anchors ere the 

dark. 
Already doubled is the cape — our bay 
Receives that prow which proudly spurns the 

spray. 
How gloriously her gallant course she goes ! 
Her white wings flying — never from her foes — 
She walks the waters like a thing of life, 
And seems to dare the elements to strife. 
Who would not brave the battle-fire — the 

wreck — 
To move the monarch of her peopled deck ? 



Hoarse o'er her side the rustling cable rings ; 
The sails ate furl'd; and anchoring round she 

swings : 
And gathering loiterers on the land discern 
Her boat v ascending from the latticed stern. 
T is mann'd — tue oars keep concert to the 

strand, 
Till grates her keel upon the shallow sand. 
Hail to the welcome shout ! — the friendly 

speech ! 
When hand grasps hand uniting on the beach ; 
The smile, the question, and the quick reply, 
And the heart's promise of festivity! 



v. 

The tidings spread, and gathering grows the 

crowd : 
The hum of voices, and the laughter loud, 
And woman's gentler anxious tone is heard — 
Friends' — husbands' — lovers' names in each 

dear word : 
" Oh ! are they safe ? we ask not of success— 
But shall we see them ? will their accents bless? 
From where the battle roars — the billows 

chafe — 
They doubtless boldly did — but who are safe? 
Here let them haste to gladden and surprise, 
And kiss the doubt from these delighted eyes'* 



" Where is our chief? for him we bear report—" 
And doubt that joy — which hails our coming— 

short; [brief; 

Yet thus sincere — tis cheering, though so 
But, Juan ! instant guide us to our chief: 
Our greeting paid, we'll feast on our return, 
And all shall hear what each may wish to learn.'' 
Ascending slowly by the rock-hewn way, 
To where his watch-tower beetles o'ti the bay, 
By bushy brake and wild flowers blossoming, 
And freshness breathing from each silver 

spring, [burst, 

Whose scattered streams from granite basin! 
Leap into life, and sparkling woo your thirst; 
From crag to cliff they mount — Near yondei 

cave, 
What lonely straggler looks alon? the wave? 
In pensive posture leaning on the brand, 
Not oft a resting-staff to that red hand ? 
" 'Tis he — 't isConrad — here — as wont — alone ; 
On — Juan! — on — and make our porposi 

known. [gwi 

The bark he views — and tell him we woi>1«j 
His ear with tidings he must quickly meet • 



THE CORSAIR. 



We dare not yet approach — thou know'st his 

mood, 
When strange or uninvited steps intrude." 



Him Juan sought, and told of their intent; — 
He spake not — but a sign express'd assent. 
These Juan calls — they come — to their salute 
He bends him slightly, but his lips are mute. 
" These letters, Chief, are from the Greek — the 

s py. 

Who still proclaims our spoil or peril nigh : 

Whate'er his tidings, we can well report 

* Much that " — " Peace, peace I" — he cuts their 

prating short. [each 

Wondering they turn, abash'd, while each to 
Conjecture whispers in his muttering speech: 
They watch his glance with many a stealing 

look, 
To gather how that eye the tidings took ; 
But, this as if he guess'd, with head aside, 
Perchance from some emotion, doubt, or pride, 
He read the scroll — " My tablets, Juan, hark — 
Where is Gonsalvo?" 

" In the anchor'd bark." 
"There let him stay — to him this order bear- 
Back to your duty — for my course prepare: 
Myself this enterprise to-night will share." 

M lW?lt, Lord Conrad?" 

"Ay! at set of sun: 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done. 
My corslet — cloak — one hour — and we are 

gone. 
Sling on thy bugle — see that free from rust, 
My carbine-lock springs worthy of my trust ; 
Be the edge sharpen'd of my boarding-brand, 
And give its guard more room to fit my hand. 
This let the armourer with speed dispose; 
Last time, it more fatigued my aim than foes: 
Mark that the signal-gun be duly fired, 
To tell us when the hour of stay s expired." 



They make obeisance, and retire in haste, 
Too soon to seek again the watery waste 
Yet they repine not — so that Conrad guides; 
And who dare question aught that he decides? 
That man of loneliness and mystery, 
Scarce seen to smile, and seldom heard to sigh; 
Whose name appals the fiercest of his crew, 
And tints each swarthy cheek with sallow er hue; 
Still sways their souls with that commanding art 
That dazzles, leads, yet chills the vulgar heart. 
What is that sped, that thus his lawless train 
Confess and envy, yet oppose in vain? 



What should it be,that thus their faith can bind? 
Thepowerof Tfiought — the magic of the Mind! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with 

skill, 
That moulds another s weakness to its will; 
Wields with their hands, but, still to these un- 

known, [own. 

Makes even their mightiest deeds appear hii 
Such hath it been — shall be — beneath the sun 
The many still must labour for the one ! 
'Tis Nature's doom — but let the WTetch who 

toils, 
Accuse not, hate not him who wears the spoils 
Oh ! if he knew the weight of splendid chains, 
How light the balance of his humbler pains ! 



Unlike the heroes of each ancient race, 
Demons in act, but Gods at least in face, 
In Conrad's form seems little to admire, 
Though his dark eyebrow shades a glance ol 

fire: 
Robust but not Herculean — to the sight 
No giant frame sets forth his common height ; 
Yet, in the whole, who paused to look again, 
Saw more than marks the crowd of vulgar men ; 
They gaze and marvel how — and still confess 
That thus it is, but why they cannot guess. 
Sun-burnt his cheek, his forehead high and pale, 
The sable curls in wild profusion veil; 
And oft perforce his rising lip reveals 
The haughtier thought it curbs, but scarce 

conceals. 
Though smooth his voice, and calm his general 

mien, [seen- 

Still seems there something he would not have 
His features' deepening lines and varying hue 
At times attracted, yet perplex' d the view, 
As if within that murkiness of mind 
Work'd feelings fearful and yet undefined; 
Such might it be — that none could truly tell — 
Too close inquiry his stern glance would quell. 
There breathe but few whose aspect might defy 
The full encounter of his searching eye : 
He had the skill, when Cunning's gaze would 

seek [cheek. 

To probe his hefflt and watch his changing 
At once the obsei vers purpose to espy, 
And on himself roll back his scrutiny, 
Lest he to Conrad rather should betray [day. 
Some secret thought, than drag that chief's to 
There was a laughing Devil in his sneer, 
That raised emotions both of rage and feai ; 
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell, 
Hope withering fled — and Mercy sigh'd far* 

well ! 3 



THE CORSAIR. 



Slight arc the outward signs of evil thought, 
Within— wilhi n—'t was there the spirit, wrought! 
Love shows all changes— Hate, Ambition, 

Guile, 
Betray no further than the bitter smile; 
The lip's leas; curl the lightest paleness thrown 
Along the govern'd aspect, speak alone 
Of deeper passions ; and to judge their mien, 
He, who would see, must be himself unseen. 
Then — with the hurried tread, the upward eye, 
The clenched hand, the pause of agony, 
That listens, starting, lest the step too near 
Approach intrusive on that mood of fear : 
Then — with each feature working from the 

heart, 
With feelings loosed to strengthen — not depart : 
That rise — convulse — contend — that freeze or 

glow, 
Flush in the cheek, or damp upon the brow ; 
Then — Stranger ! if thou canst, and tremblest 

not, 
Behold his soul — the rest that soothes his lot! 
Mark — how that lone and blighted bosom sears 
The scathing thought of execrated years ! 
Behold — but who hath seen, or e'er shall see, 
Man as himself — the secret spirit free? 



Yet was not Conrad thus by Nature sent 
To lead the guilty — guilt's worse instrument — 
His soul was changed, before his deeds had 

driven 
Him forth to war with man and forfeitheaven. 
Warp'd by fche world in Disappointment's 

school, 
In words too wise, in conduct there a fool ; 
Too firm to yield, and far too proud to stoop, 
Doom'd by his very virtues for a dupe, 
He cursed those virtues as the cause of ill, 
And not the traitors who betray' d him still ; 
Nor deem'd that gifts bestow'd on better men 
Had left him joy, and means to give again. 
Fear'd — shunn'd — belied — ere youth had lost 

her force, 
He hated man too much to feel remorse, 
And thought the voice of wrath a sacred call, 
To pay the injuries of some on all. 
He knew himself a villain — but he deem'd 
The rest no better than the thing he seem'd; 
And scom'd the best as hypocrites who hid 
Those deeds the bolder spirit plainly did. 
He knew himself detested, but he knew 
The hearts that loath'd him, crouch'd and 

dreaded loo 



Lone, wild, and strange, he stood alike exempt 
From all affection and from a'l contempt: 
His name could sadden, and his acts surprise; 
But they that fear'd him dared not to despise : 
Man spurns the worm, but pauses ere he wake 
The slumbering venom of the folded snake : 
The first may turn — but not avenge the blow ; 
The last expires — but leaves no living foe; 
Fast to the doom'd offender's form it clings, 
And he may crush — not conquer — still it stings: 



None are all evil — quickening round his heart, 
One softer feeling would not yet depart; 
Oft could he sneer at others as beguiled 
By passions worthy of a fool or child; 
Yet 'gainst that passion vainly still he strove, 
And even in him it asks the name of Love ! 
Yes, it was love — unchangeable — unchanged, 
Felt but for one from whom he never ranged; 
Though fairest capdves daily met his eye, 
He shunn'd, nor sought, but coldly pass'd 
them by ; [bower, 

Though many a beauty droop'd in prison'd 
None ever soothed his most unguarded hour. 
Yes — it was Love — if thoughts of tenderness. 
Tried in temptation, strengthen'd by distress, 
Unmoved by absence, firm in every crime, 
And yet — Oh more than all! — untired by 

time; 
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile, 
Could render sullen were she near to smile, 
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent 
On her one murmur of his discqntent; 
Which still would meet with joy, with calm- 
ness part, [heart; 
Lest that his look of grief should reach her 
Which naught removed, nor menaced to re« 

move — 
If there be love in mortals — this was love'. 
He was a villain — ay — reproaches shower 
On him — but not the passion, nor its power, 
Which only proved, all other virtues gone, 
Not guilt itself could quench this loveliest on« ! 



He paused a moment — till his hastening men 
Pass'd the first winding downward to the glen 
" Strange tidings ! — many a peril have I past, 
Nor know I why this next appears the last ! 
Yet so my heart forebodes, but must not fear. 
Nor shall my followers rind me falter here. 
'T is rash to meet, but surer death to wait 
Till here the\ hunt us to undoubted fate; 
And, if my plan but hold, and Fortune smile, 
We 11 furnish movmers for our funeral pile. 



32 



THE CORSAIR. 



Ay — let {hem slumber — peaceful be their 
dreams ! [beams 

Mora ne'er awoke them with such brilliant 
As kindle high to-night (but blow, thou breeze !) 
To warm these slow avengers of the seas. 
"Now to Medora — Oh ! my sinking heart. 
Long may her own be lighter than thou art ! 
Yet was I brave — mean boast where all are 

brave ! 
Ev'r insects sting for aught they seek to save. 
This common courage which with brutes, we 

share, 
That owes its deadliest efforts to despair, 
Small merit claims — but t was my nobler hope 
To teach my few with numbers still to cope ; 
Long have I led them — not to vainly bleed: 
No medium now — we perish or succeed 1 
S< let it be — it irks not me to die ; 
But thus to urge them whence they cannot fly. 
My lot bath long had little of my care, 
But chafes my pride thus baffled in the snare: 
Is this my skill? my craft? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate — 
She may redeem thee still — nor yet too late." 



Thus with himself communion held he, till 
He reach' d the summit of his tower-crown'd 

hill: 
There at the portal paused — for wild and soft 
He heard those accents never heard too oft ; 
Through the high lattice far yet sweet they 

rung, 
And these the- notes the bird of beauty sung : 



1. 

' Deep in my soul that tender secret dwells, 
Lonely and lost to light for evermore, 

Save when to thine my heart responsive swells, 
Then trembles into silence as before. 



• There, in its centre, a sepulchral lamp 
Burns the slow flame,-etemal — but unseen ; 

Which not the darkness of despair can damp, 
Though vain its ray as it had never been. 



" Remember me — Oh ! p?.ss not thou my grave 
Without one thought whose relics there re- 
cline- 

rV only pang my bosom dare not brave 
Wust be to find forgetfulness in thine. 



4. 

"My fondest — faintest — latest accents hesr 
Grief for the dead not Virtue can reprove; 

Then give me all I ever ask'd — a tear, 

The first — last — sole reward of so %uch 
love !" 

He pass'd the portal — cross'd the corridors, 
And reach'd the chamber as the strain gave 

o'er . 
" My own Medora! sure thy song is sad — " 

" In Conrad's absence wouldst thou have » 

glad? 
Without thine eai to listen to my lay, 
Still must my song my thoughts, my soul betray 
Still must each accent to my bosom suit, 
My heart unhush'd — although my lips wen, 

mute ! 
Oh ! many a night on thislone couch reclined 
My dreaming fear with storms hath wing'd 

the wind, 
And deem'd the breath that faintly fann'd thy 

sail 
The murmuring prelude of the ruder gale; 
Though soft, it seem'd the low prophetic dirge, 
That mourn' d thee floating en the savage 

surge : 
Sti)l would I rise to rouse the beacon fire, 
Lest spies less true should let the blaze expiie; 
And many a restless hour outwatch'd each star, 
And morning came — and still thou wert afar. 
Oh ! how the chill blast on my bosom blew, 
And day broke dreary on my troubled view, 
And still I gazed and gazed — and not aprow 
Was grained to my tears — my truth — my vow ! 
At length — 't was noon — I hail'd and blest 

the mast 
That met my sight — it near'd — Alas ! it passed ! 
Another came — Oh God! 't was thine at last! 
Would that those days were over ! wilt thou 

ne'er, 
My Conrad! learn the joys of peace to share? 
Sure thou hast more than wealth, and many 

a home 
As bright as this invites us not to roam: 
Thou know'st it is not peril that I fear, 
1 only tremble when thou art not here; 
Then not for mine, but that far dearer life, 
Which flies from love and languishes fbt 

strife — 
How strange that heart, to me so tender still, 
Should war with nature and its better will !" 

" Yea, strange indeed — that heart hath long 

been changed ; 
Worm-like 'twas trampled, — adder-like avengetl 



THE CORSAIR. 



33 



Without one hope on earth beyond thy love, 
And scarce a glimpse of mercy from above. 
Vet the same feeling which thou dost condemn 
My very love to thee is hate to them, 
So closely mingling here, that disentwined, 
I cease to love thee when I love mankind: 
Yet dread not this — the proof of all the past 
Ass_.es the future that my love will last; 
But — Oh, Medora ! nerve thy gentler heart, 
This hour again — but not for lor.g — we part." 
" This hour we par* . my heart foreboded this: 
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss. 
This hour — it cannot be — this hour away! 
Yon bark hath hardly anchor' d in the bay; 
Her consort still is absent, and her crew 
Ha"e need of rest before they toil anew: 
My love! thou moek'st my weakness; and 

wouldst steel 
My breast before the time when it must feel ; 
But trifle now no more with my distress, 
Such mirth hath less of play than bitterness. 
Be silent, Conrad ! — dearest! come and share 
The feast these hands delighted to prepare ; 
Light toil! tD cull and dress thy frugal fare ! 
See, I have pluek'd the fruit that promised best, 
ftnd where not sure, perplex'd, but pleased, I 

gucss'd 
At such as seem'd the fairest; thrice the hill 
M y steps have wound to try the coolest rill ; 
Yes ! thy sherbet to-night will sweetly flow, 
See how it sparkles in its vase of snow ! 
The graoes' gay juice thy bosom never cheers ; 
Thou more man Moslem vhen the cup ap- 
pears: 
Think not I mean to chide — for I rejoice 
What others deem a penance is thy choice. 
But come, the board is spread; our silver lamp 
Is trimm'd, and heeds not the sirocco's damp : 
Then shall my handmaids while the time along, 
And join with me the dance, or wake the song; 
Or my guitar, which still thou lov'st to hear, 
Shall soothe or lull — or, should it vex thine ear, 
We '11 turn the tale, by Ariosto told, 
Of fair Olympia loved and left of old. 
Why — thou Wert worse than he who broke his 

vow 
To that lost damsel.shouldst thou leave me now; 
Or even that traitor chief — I've seen thee smile, 
When the clear sky show'd Ariadne's Isle, 
Which I have pointed from these cliffs the 

whi'.e : 
And thus, half sportive, half in fear, I said, 
Lest Time should raise that doubt to more than 

dread, 
Thus Ccnrad, too, will quit me for the main: 
And he deceived me —for — he c*me again . 



"Again — again — and oft again — my 1. ;q ! 
If there be life below, and hope above. 

He will return — but now, the moments bring 
The time of parting with redoubled wing: 
The why — the where — what boots it now to 
tell"? [well ! 

Since all must end in that wild word — fare 
Yet would I fain — did time allow — disclose — 
Fear not — these are no formidable foes; 
And here shall watch a more than wonted guard, 
For sudden siege and long defence prepared : 
Nor be thou lonely — though thy lord's away, 
Our matrons and thy handmaids with thee stay ; 
And this thy comfort — that,when next we meet, 
Security shall make repose more sweet. 
List ! — 't is the bugle'' — Juan shrilly blew — 
" One kiss — one more — another — Oh ! Adieu !" 

She rose — she sprung — she clung to nis em- 
brace, 
Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. 
He Oared not raise to his that deep-blue aye, 
Which downcast droop'd in tearless agony. 
Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms, 
In all the wildness of dishevell'd charms ; 
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwell 
So full — that feeling seem'd almost unfeh! 
Hark — peais the thunder of the signa. gun! 
It told 't was sunset — and he cursed thai, sun. 
Again — again — that form he madly press'd, 
Which mutely clasp'd, imploringly caress' d ! 
And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, 
One moment gazed — as if to gaze no more; 
Felt — that for him earth held but her alone, 
Kiss'd her cold forehead- -turn' d — is Conrad 
gone ? 

xv. 
"And is he gone.-'" — on sudden solitude 
How oft that fearful question will intrude! 
" 'T was but an instant past — and here he stood! 
And now" — without the portal's porch she 

rush'd, 
And then at length her tears in freedom gush'd; 
Big — bright — and fast, unknown to her thev 

fell; 
But still her lips refused to send — " Farewell ! " 
For in that word — that fatal word — howe'er 
We promise — hope — believe — there K'eathoa 

despair. 
O'er every feature of that still, pale face, 
Had sorrow fix'd what time can ne'er erase 
The tender blue of that large loving eye 
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy, 
Till — Oh, how far ! — it caught a glimpse of him. 
And then it flow'd — and phrensied seem'd 
swim, 



34 



THE CORSAIR. 



TJarougli tnos« long, dark, and glistening lashes 

ciew'd 
With drops of sadness oft to be renew' A, 
" lie 's gone ! " — against her heart that hand is 

driven, [heaven; 

Convulsed and quiek — then gently raised to 
She look'd and saw the heaving of the main ; 
The white sail set — she dared not look again; 
But turn'd with sickening soul within the gate— 
" It is no dream — and I am desolate ! " 



All these he wielded to command assent; 
But where he wish'd to win, so well unbent, 
That kindness cancell'd fear in those who heard 
And others' gifts show'd mean beside his word, 
When echo'd to the heart as from his own 
His deep yet tender melody of tone : 
But such was foreign to his wonted mood, 
He cared not what he soften'd, but subdued; 
The evil passions of his youth had made 
Him value less who loved — than what obey'd 



From crag to crag descending — swiftly sped 
>tern Conrad down,nor once he turn'd his head; 
Jut shrunk whene'er the windings of his way 
Forced on his eye what he would not survey, 
His lone, but lovely dwelling on the steep, 
That hail'd him first when homeward from the 

deep : 
And she — the dim and melancholy star, 
Whose ray of beauty reach' d him from afar, 
On her he must not gaze, he must not think, 
There he might rest — but on Destruction's 

brink : 
Yet o»ce almost he stopp'd — and nearly gave 
His fate to chance, his projects to the wave : 
But no — it must not be — a worthy chief 
May melt, but not betray to woman's grief. 
He sees his bark, he notes how fair the wind, 
And sternly gathers all his might of mind: 
Again he hurries on — and as he hears 
The clang of tumult vibrate on his ears, 
The busy sounds, the bustle of the shore, 
The shout, the signal, and the dashing oar ; 
As marks his eye the seaboy on the mast, 
The anchors rise, the sails unfurling fast, 
The waving kerchiefs of the crowd that urge 
That mute adieu to those who stem the surge; 
And more than all, his blood-red flag aloft, 
He marvell'd how his heart could seem so soft. 
Fire in his glance, and wildness in his breast, 
He feels of all his former self possest ; 
He bounds — he flies — until his footsteps reach 
The verge where ends the cliff.begins the beach, 
There checks his speed; but pauses less U 

breathe 
The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
Nor rush, disturb'd by haste, to vulgar view: 
For weli had Conrad leam'd to curb the crowd, 
By arts that veil, and oft preserve the proud ; 
His was the lofty port, the distant mien, 
That seems to shun the sight — and awes if seen : 
The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye, 
wit checks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy ; 



Around him mustering ranged his ready guard. 
Before him Juan stands — "Are all prepared?" 
"They are — nay more — embark'd: the latest 

boat 

Waits out my chief " 

" My sword, and my capote." 
Soon firmly girded on, and lightly slung, 
His belt and cloak were o'er his shoulders flung 
"Call Pedro here!" He comes — and Conrad 

bends, 
With all the courtesy he deign'd his friends; 
" Receive these tablets, and peruse with care, 
Words of high trust and truth are graven there ; 
Double the guard, and when Anselmo's bark 
Arrives, let him alike these orders mark: 
In three days (serve the breeze) the sun sh&il 

shine 
On our return — till then all peace be thine V 
This said, his brother Pirate's hand he wruug, 
Then to his boat with haughty gesture sprung. 
Flash' d the dipt oars, and sparkling with the 

stroke, 
Around the waves'phosphoric 4 brightness broke; 
They gain the vessel — on the deck he stands* — 
Shrieks the shrill whistle — ply the busy hands — 
He marks how well the ship her helm obeys, 
How gallant all her crew — and deigns to praise. 
His eyes of pride to young Gonsalvo turn — 
Why doth he start, and inly seem to mourn T 
Alas ! those eyes beheld his rocky tower, 
And live a moment o'er the parting hour; 
She — his Medora — did she mark the pn w? 
Ah ! never loved he half so much as now ! 
But much must yet be done ere dawn of day — 
Again he mans himself and turns away ; 
Down to the cabin with Gonsalvo bends, 
And there unfolds his plan — his means — and 

ends: [chart, 

Before them bums the lamp, and s/reads the 
And all that speaks and aids the naval art ; 
They to the midnight watch protract debate; 
To anxious eyes wiiat hour is ccr late? 
Meantime the stea-lv breeze s e rc-e!y blew. 
And fast and falcon -ike tht « .ssv- i*.«?w : 



THE COKSAIR. 



35 



Tass'd the high headlands of each clustering 

isle, [smile: 

To gain their port — long — long ere morning 
Anil soon the night-glass through the narrow- 
bay 
Discovers where the Pacha's galleys lay. 
Count they each sail — and mark how ihere 

supine 
The lights in vain o'er heedless Moslem shine. 
Secure, unnoted, Conrad's prow pass'd by, 
And ancbor'd where his ambush meant to lie! 
Screen' d from espial by the jutting cape, 
1 hat rears on high its rude fantastic shape. 
Then rose his band to duty — not from sleep— 
Equipp'd for deeds alike on land or deep; 
While leau'd their leader o'er the fretting flood, 
And calmly talk'd — and yethetalk'dof blood! 



CANTO THE SECOND. 
" Coaosceete i dubiosi desiri ?" — Dante. 

i. 

In Coron's bay floats many a galley light, 
Through Coron's lattices the lamps are bright, 
For Seyd, the Pacha, makes a feast to-night: 
A feast for promised triumph yet to come. 
When he shall drag the fetter' d Rovers home: 
This hath he sworn by Alia and his sword, 
And faithful to his firman and his word, 
His summon'd prows collect along the coast, 
And great the gathering crew^s, and loud the 

boast; 
Already shared the captives and the prize, 
Though far the distant foe they thus despise; 
'Tis but to sail — no doubt to-morrow's Sun 
Will see the Pirates bound — their haven won! 
Meantime the watch may slumber, if they will, 
Nor only wake to war, but dreaming kill. 
Though all, who can, disperse on shore and seek 
To flesh their glowing valour on the Greek; 
How well such deed becomes the turban'd 

brave — 
To bare the sabre's ed?e before a slave ! 
Infest liis dwelling — but forbear to slay, 
Their arms are strong, yet merciful to-day, 
And do not deign to smite because they may! 
Unless some gay caprice suggests the blow, 
To keep in practice for the coming foe. 
Revel and rout the evening hours beguile, 
\ud they who wish to wear ahead must smile 



For Moslem mouths produce their ciyijflMl 
cheer. 

And hoard their curses, till the coast is ck-ax. 



High in his hall reclines the turban'd Se) ! . 
Around — the bearded chiefs he came to lead. 
Removed the banquet, and the la.st pilatl — 
Forbidden draughts, 't is said, he dared to quail. 
Though to the rest the sober berry's juice, 5 
The slaves bear round for rigid Moslems' use; 
The long chibouque's 15 dissolving cloud siumi/, 
While dance the Almas' to wild minstrelsy. 
The rising mom will view the chiefs embark; 
But waves are somewhat treacherous in tha 

dark : 
And revellers may more securely sleep 
On silken couch than o'er the rugged (!(■• i»; 
Feast there who can — nor combat till they must, 
And less to conquest than to Korans trii.st; 
And yet the numbers crowded in his host 
Might warrant more than even the Pacha'l 

boast 

in. 
With cautious reverence from the outer ga*„, 
Slow stalks the slave, whose office there to « ait, 
Bows his benthead — his hand salutes the four, 
Ere yet his tongue the trusted tidings bore: 
"A captive Dervise, from the pirates neM 
Escaped, is here — himself would tell the rest."* 
He took the sign from Seyd's assenting eye, 
And led the holy man in silence nigh. 
His arms were folded on his dark-green vest, 
His step was feeble, and his look deprest ; 
Yet worn he seem'd of hardship more than 

years, [fears. 

And pale his cheek with penance, not IV, tm 
Vow'd to his God — his sable locks he wore, 
And these his lofty cap rose proudly o'er . 
Around his form his loose longrobe was throw n, 
And wrapt a breast bestow' d on heaven alone 
Submissive, yet with self-possession mann'd, 
He calmly met the curious eyes that scunn'd, 
And question of his coming fain would seek. 
Before the Pacha's will allow'd to speak. 



" Whence com'st thou, Dervise *" 

" From the outlaw a ilea. 
A fugitive — " 

" Thy capture where and when " " 
"From Scalanovo's port to Scio's isle, 
The Saick was bound ; but Alia did not snftili 
Upon our course — the Moslem merchant's 
gains [chains. 

The Rovers won : our limbs have worn tbeii 



36 



THE CORSAIR. 



i had no death to fear, nor wealth to boast, 
Beyond the wandering freedom wlnen I lost; 
^♦, length a fisher's bumble boat by night 
Afforded hope, and ulfer'd chance of flight; 
I seized the hour, and find my safety here — 
With thee — most mighty Pacha! who can 
fear? 

'*How speed the outlaws? stand they well 
prepared, [guard ? 

Their pi under' d wealth, and robber's rock, to 
Dream they of this our preparation, doom'd 
1 o view with fire their scorpion nest consumed?" 

M Pacha! the fetter' d captive's mourning eye, 
That weeps for flight, but ill can play the spy ; 
I only heard the reckless waters roar, 
Those waves that would not bear me from the 

shore ; 
I only mark'd the glorious sun and sky, 
Too bright — too blue — for my captivity; 
And felt — that all which Freedom's bosom 

cheers, 
Must break my chain before it dried my tears. 
This may' st thou judge, at least, from my escape, 
They little deem of aught in peril's shape ; 
Else vainly had I pray'd or sought the chance 
That leads me here — if eyed with vigilance : 
The careless guard that did not see me fly, 
May watch as idly when thy power is nigh. 
Facha! — my limbs are faint — ami nature crave* 
Food for my hunger, rest from tossing waves : 
Permit my absence — peace be with thee I Peace 
With all around! — now grant repose — release." 

" Stay, Derv ise ! I have more to question — stay, 
I do command thee — sit — dost hear? — obey ! 
More I must ask, and food the slaves shall bring: 
Thou shalt not pine where all are banqueting: 
The supper done — prepare thee to reply, 
Clearly and full — I love not mystery.' 

'T were vain to guess what shook the pious man, 
Who look'd not lovingly on that Divan; 
Nor shovv'd high relish for the banquet prest. 
And less respect for every fellow guest. 
'Twas but a moment's peevish hectic past 
Along his cheek, and tranquillised as fast: 
He sate him down in silence, and his look 
Resumed the calmness which before forsook : 
The feast was usher'd in — but sumptuous fare 
He shunn'd as if some poison mingled there. 
For one so long condemn'd to toil and fast, 
Methinks he strangely spares the rich repast 

"What ails thee, Dervise? eat — dost thou sup 

pose 
This feast a Christian's? or my friends thyfoes ? 



Why dost thou shun the salt? that saertd pledge 
Which, once partaken, blunts the sabre s edge. 
Makes even contending tribes in peace unite, 
And hated hosts seem brethren to the sight ' " 

" Salt seasons dainties — and my food is still 
The humblest root, my drink the simplest lid 
And my stern vow and order's 9 laws oppose 
To break or mingle bread with friends or foes. 
It may seem strange — if there be aught to dread, 
That peril rests upon my single head ; 
But for thy sway — nay more — thy Sultan's 

throne, 
I taste nor bread nor banquet — save alone ■ 
Infringed our order's rule, the Prophet's rage 
To Mecca's dome might bar my pilgrimage." 

" Well — as thou wilt — ascetic as thou art — 
One question answer; then in peace depart. 
How many? — Ha! it cannot sure be day? 
What star — what sun is bursting on the bay? 
It shines a lake of fire ! — away — away ! 
Ho! treachery! my guards! my scimitar . 
The galleys feed the flames — and I afar ! 
Accursed Dervise ! — these thy tidings— thou 
Some villain spy — seize — cleave him— slay 
him now ! " 

Up rose the Dervise with that burst of light- 
Nor less his change of form appall'dthe sight: 
Up rose that Dervise — not in saintly garb, 
But like a warrior bounding on his barb, 
Dash'd his high cap, and tore his robe away — 
Shone his mail'd breast, andflash'd his sabre's 

ray ! 
His close but glittering casque, and sable plume. 
More glittering eye, and black brow's sablor 

gloom, 
Glared on the Moslems' eyes some Afrit sprits. 
Whose demon death-blow left no hope for tight 
The wild confusion, and the swarthy glow 
Of flames on high, and torches from below, 
The shriek of terror, and the mingling yell — 
For swords began to clash, and shouts to swell — 
Flung o'er that spot of earth the air of hell ! 
Distracted, to and fro, the flying slaves 
Behold but bloody shore and fiery waves ; 
Nought heeded they the Pacha's angry cry, 
They seize that Dervise ! — seize on Zatanai ! 10 
He saw their terror — check'd the first despair 
That urged him but to stand and peri.sh there, 
Since far too early and too well obey'd, 
The flame was kindled ere the signal made; 
He saw their terror — from his bddric drew 
His bugle— brief the blast — but shrilly blew ; 
T is answer' d — " Well ye speed, my gaihuu 

crew; 



THE CORSAIR. 



rt 



Why did I doubt their quickness of career? 
And* deem design had left me single here?" 
Sweeps his long arm — that sabre's whirling 

sway 
Sheds fast atonement for its first delay ; 
Completes his fury what their fear begun, 
And makes the many basely quail to one. 
The cloven turbans o'er the chamber spread, 
And scarce an arm dare rise to guard its head : 
Kven Seyd, convulsed, o'erwhelm'd, with rage, 

surprise, 
Retreats before him. though he still defies. 
No craven he — and yet he dreads the blow, 
So much Confusion magnifies his foe ! 
His blazing galleys still distract his sight, 
He tore his beard, and foaming fled the fight ;1 1 
For now the Pirates pass'd the Haram gate, 
And burst within — and it were death to wait; 
Where wildAmazement shrieking — kneeling— - 

throws 
The sword aside — in vain — the blood o'erfiows! 
The Corsairs pouring, haste to where within, 
Invited Conrad's bugle, and the din 
Of groaning victims, and wild cries for life, 
Proclaim' d how well he did the work of strife. 
They shout to find him grim and lonely there, 
A glutted tiger mangling in his lair! 
But short their greeting — shorter his reply — 
" 'Tis well — but Seyd escapes — and he must 

die— [do- 

Much hath been don99ebut more remains to 
Their galleys blaze — why not their city too?" 



Quick at the word — they seized him each a 

torch, 
And fire the dome from minaret to porch. 
A stern delight was fix'd in Conrad's eye, 
But sudden sank — for on his ear the cry 
Of women struck, and like a deadly knell 
Knock'd at that heart unmoved by battle s yell. 
Oh ! burst the Haram— wrong not on your 

lives 
One female form — remember — we have wives. 
On them such outrage Vengeance will repay ; 
Man is our foe, and such 'tis ours to slay : 
But still we spared — must spare the weaker 

prey. 
Oh ! I forgot — but Heaven wall net forgive 
If at my word the helpless cease to live: 
Follow who will — I go — we yet have time 
Our souls. to lighten of at least a crime." 
He climbs the crackling stair — he burst? the 

door, 
Nor feels his feet glow scorching withthf floor; 



His breath choked gasping with the voluiveJ 

smoke, 
But still from room to*oom his way he broke. 
They search — they find — they save : with iusty 

arms 
Each bears a prize of unregarded charms; 
Calm their loud fears ; sustain their sinking 

frames 
With all the care defenceless beauty claims : 
So well could Conrad tame their fiercest mood, 
And check the very hands with gore imbrued. 
But who is she ? whom Conrad's arms convey 
From reeking pile and combat's wreck— 

aw r ay — 
Who but the love of him he dooms to bleed? 
The Haram queen — but still the slave of Seyd 



Brief time had Conrad now to greet Gulnare, * 
Few words to re-assure the trembling fair; 
For in that pause compassion snatch'd frrna 

war, 
The foe before retiring, fast and far, 
With wonder saw their footsteps unpursued, 
First slowlier fled — then rallied — then with- 
stood. 
ThisSeydperceives,then first perceives how few 
Compared with his, the Corsair's roving crew 
And blushes o'er his error, as he eyes 
The ruin wrought by panic aud surprise. 
Alia il Alia ! Vengeance swells the cry — 
Shame mounts to rage that must atone or die ' 
And flame for flame and blood for blood must 

tell, 
The tide of triumph ebbs that flow'd too well — 
When wrath returns to renovated strife, 
And those who fought for conquest strike for 

life. 
Conrad beheld the danger — he beheld 
His followers faint by freshening foesrepell'd. 
" One effort — one — to break the circling host . ' 
They form — unite — charge — waver — all islosl 
Within a narrower ring compress'd, beset, 
Hopeless,notheartless,strive and struggle yet — 
Ah ! now they fight in firmest file no more, 
Hemm'd in — cut off — cleft down — and tram 

pled o'er ; 
But each strikes singly, silently, and home, 
Aud sinks outwearied rather than o'ercome, 
His last faint quittance rendering with hii 

breath, 
Till the blade glimmers in the grasp of death! 

VII. 

But first, ere came the rallying host to blow*, 
And rank to rank, and hand to hand oppose, 



33 



THE CORSAIR. 



Gain are and all her Haram handmaids freed, 
Safe in the dome of one who held their creed, 
By Conrad's mandate safely were bestow'd, 
And dried those tears for life and fame that 

flow'd : 
And when that dark-eyed lady, young Gulnare, 
Recall'd those thoughts late wandering in de- 
spair, 
Mach did she marvel o'er the courtesy 
That smooth'd his accents; soften'd in his eye: 
T was strange — Ma/ robber thus with gore be- 

dew'd, 
Reem'd gentler then than Seyd in fondest mood. 
The Pacha woo'd as if he deem'd the slave 
Must seem delighted with the heart he gave; 
The Corsair vow'd protection, soothed affright, 
As if his homage were a woman's right. 
"The wish is wrong — nay, worse for female — 

vain : 
Yet much I long to view that chief again ; 
If but to thank for, what my fear forgot, 
The life — my loving lord remember'd not!" 

VIII. 

And him she saw,where thickest carnage spread, 
But gather'd breathing from the happier dead ; 
Far from his hand, and battling with a host 
That deem right dearly won the field he lost, 
Fell'd — bleeding — baffled of the death he 

sought, 
And snatch'd to expiate all the ills he wrought; 
Preserved to linger and to live in vain, 
While Vengeance ponder' d o'er new plans of 

pain, [again — 

And stanch'd the blood she saves to shed 
But drop for drop, for Seyd's unglutted eye 
Would doom him ever dying— ne'er to die! 
Can this be he? triumphant late she saw, 
When his red hand's wild gesture waved, a law! 
T is he indeed — disarm'd but undeprest, 
His sole regret the life he still possest; 
His wounds too slight, though taken with that 

will, [could kill. 

Which would have kiss'd the hand that then 
Oh were there none, of all the many given, 
To send his soul — he scarcely ask'd to heaven? 
MVt he alone of all retain his breath, 
Who more than all had striven and struck for 

death? 
He deeply felt — what mortal hearts must, feel 
When thus reversed on faithless fortune's wheel, 
For crimes committed, and the victor's threat 
Of lingering tortures to repay the debt — 
He deeply, darkly felt; but evil pride 
rhai led to perpetrate — now serves to hide. 



Still in his stern and self-collected mien 

A conqueror's more than captive's air is sixo, 

Though faint with wasting toil and stiffening 

wound, 
But few that saw — so calmly gazed around: 
Though the far shouting of the distant crowd, 
Their tremors o'er, rose insolently loud, 
The better warriors who beheld him near. 
Insulted not the foe who taught them fear; 
And the grim guards that to his durance led, 
In silence eyed him with a secret dread. 

rx. 

The Leech was sent — but not in mercy — there, 
To note how much the life yet left could bear; 
He found enough to load with heaviest chain, 
And promise feeling for the wrench of pain : 
To-morrow — yea — to-morrow's evening sun 
Will sinking see impalement's pangs begun, 
And rising with the wonted blush of morn 
Behold how well or ill those pangs are borne. 
Of torments this the longest and the worst, 
Which adds all other agony to thirst, 
That day by day death still forbears to slake, 
While famish' d vultures flit around the stake, 
" Oh ! water — water ! " — smiling Hate denies 
The victim's prayer — for if he drinks — he dies. 
This was his doom • — the Leech, the guard, 

were gone, 
\nd left proud Conrad fetter'd and alone. 



T were vain to paint to what his feelings 

grew— 
It even were doubtful if their victim knew. 
There is a war, a chaos of the mind, 
When all its elements convulsed — combined- 
Lie dark and jarring with perturbed force, 
And gnashing with impenitent Remorse ; 
That juggling fiend — who never spake before— 
But cries " I warn'd thee!" when the deed is 

o'er. 
Vain voice! the spirit burning but unbent. 
May writhe — rebel — the weak alone repeni.' 
Even in that lonely hour when most it feels, 
And, to itself, all — all that self reveals, 
No single passion, and no ruling thought 
That leaves the rest as once unseen, unsought: 
But the wild prospect when the soul reviews — 
All rushing through their thousand avenues, 
Ambition's dreams expiring, love's regrei, 
Endanger'd glory, life itself beset; 
The joy untasted, the contempt or hate 
'Gainst those who fain would triumph in am 

'ate; 



THE CORSAIR. 



30 



The hopeless past, the hasting future driven 
Too quickly on to guess if hell or heaven; 
Deeds, thoughts, and words, perhaps remem- 

ber'd not 
So keenly till that hour, but ne'er forgot; 
Things light or lovely in their acted time, 
But now to stem reflection each a crime ; 
The withering sense of evil unrcveal'd, 
Not cankeringless because the more conceal'd — 
All, in a word, from which all eyes must start. 
That oper.l^rt sepulchre — the naked heart 
P*res with its buried woes, till Pride awake, 
To snatch the mirror from the soul — and break. 
Ay — Pride can veil, and Courage brave it all, 
All — all — before — beyond — the deadliest fall. 
Each has some fear, and he who least betrays, 
The only hypocrite deserving praise : 
Not the loud recreant wretch who boasts and 

flies; 
But he who looks on death — and silent dies 
So steel'd by pondering o'er his far career 
He half-way meets himshouldhe menace near! 



XI. 

In ths high chamber of his highest tower 
Caie Conrad, fetter'd in the Pacha's power. 
His palace perish'd in the flame — this fort 
Contain' d at once his captive and his court. 
Not much could Conrad of his sentence blame, 
His foe. if vanquish'd, had but shared the 

same : — 
Alone he sate — in solitude had scann'd 
His guilty bosom, but that breast he mann'd : 
One thought alone he could not — dared not 

meet — 
"Oh, how these tidings will Medora greet?" 
Then — only then — his clanking hands he 

raised, [gazed: 

And strain'd with rage the chain on which he 
But soon he found — or feign'd — or dream'd 

relief. 
And smiled in self-derision of his grief 
' Ar.d now come torture when it will— or may 
M ore need of rest to nerve me for the day ! " 
This said, with languor to his mat he crept, 
And, whatsoe'er his visions, quickly slept. 
Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun, 
For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done : 
And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time, 
She scarce had left an uncommitted crime. 
One hour beheld him since the tidehestemm'd — 
Disguised — discovcr'd — conquering — ta'er. 

— eondjmn'd — 
A »-nief on land — an outlaw on the deep — 
Oci^ovina — savinjj — prison "d — and asleep ! 



He slept in calmest seeming — for his create 
Was hush'd so deep — Ah! happy if in aeath. 
He slept — Who o'er his placid slumber bends ? 
His foes are gon«. — and here he hath no friends : 
Is it some seraph sent to grant him grace? 
No, 't is an earthly form with heavenly face ! 
Its white ai-m raised a lamp— yet gently hid, 
Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid 
Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain, 
And once unclosed — but once may close again. 
That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair, 
And auburn waves of gemm'd and braided hair; 
With shape of fairy lightness — naked foot, 
That shines like snow, and falls on earth as 

mute — 
Through guards and dunnest night how came 

it there? 
Ah ! rather ask what, will not woman dare ? 
Whom youth and pity lead like thee, Gulnare ! 
She could not sleep — and while the Pacha's 

rest 
In muttering dreams yet saw his pirate-guest, 
She left his side — his signet-ring she bore, 
Which oft in sport adorn'd her hand before — 
And with it, scarcely question'd, won her way 
Through drowsy guards that must that sign 

obey. [blows, 

Worn out with toil, and tired with changing 
Their eyes had envied Conrad his repose; 
And chill and nodding at the turret door, 
They stretch their listless limbs, and watch no 

more: 
Just raised their heads to hail the signet-ring, 
Nor ask or what or who the sign may bring. 



She gazed in wonder, " Can he calmly sleep, 
While other eyes his fall or ravage weep? 
And mine in restlessness arc wandering here— • 
What sudden spell hath made this man so 

dear? 
True — 't is to him my life, and more, I owe, 
And me and mine he spared from worse than 

woe : [breaks — 

'Tis late to think — but soft — his slumber 
How heavily he sighs ! — l.e starts — awakes !** 

He raised his head — and dazzled with the light 
His eye seem'd dubious if it saw aright: 
He moved his hand — the grating of his chain 
Too harshly told him that he lived again. 
" What is that form ? if not a shape of air, 
Methinks, my jailor's fa.-e shows wond'roca 
fair! ' 



40 



THE CORSAIR. 



•• Tiiate! thou knowst me not — but 1 am one, 
Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done ; 
Look on me — and remember her, thy hand 
Snatch' d from the flaraes, and thy more fearful 
band. [why — 

I come through darkness — and I scarce know 
Vet not to hurt — I would not see thee die." 

M If so, kind lady! thine the only eye 

That would not here in that gay hope delight: 

Theirs is the chance — and let "them use their 

right. 
But sdU I thank their courtesy or thine, 
That would confess me at so fair a shrine 1 " 

Strange though it ssem — yet with extremest 

grief 
Is link'd a mirth — it doth not bring relief — 
That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles, 
And smiles in bitterness — but still it smiles ; 
And sometimes with the wisest and the best, 
Till even the scaffold 13 echoes with their jest. 
Vet not the joy to which it seems akin — 
It may deceive all hearts, save that within. 
Whate'er it was that flash' d on Conrad, now 
A laughing wildness half unbent his brow: 
And these his accents had a sound of mirth, 
As if the last he could enjoy on earth; 
Vet 'gainst his nature — for through that short 

life, [strife. 

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and 



"Corsair ! thy doom is named — but I have power 
To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour. 
Thee would I spare — nay more — would save 

thee now, [allow; 

But this — time — hope — nor even thy strength 
But all I can, I will : at least, delay 
The sentence that remits thee scarce a day. 
More now were ruin — evm thyself were loth 
The vain attempt should bring but doom to 

both." 

" Yes ! — loth indeed : — my soul is nerved to all, 
Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall : 
Tempt not thyself with peril ; me with hope, 
Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope: 
Unfit, to vanquish — shall I meanly fly, 
The one of all my band that would not die? 
Yet there is one — to whom my memory clings, 
Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs. 
My sole resources in the path I trod 
W ere these — my bark — my sword — my love — 
my God ! 



The last 1 left in youth — he leaves tae now— 
And Man but works his will to lay me low. 
I have no thought to mock his throne witi 

prayer 
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair ^ 
It is enough — I breathe — and I can bear. 
My sword is shaken from the worthless hand 
That might have better kept so true a brand ; 
My bark is sunk or captive — but my love — 
For her in sooth my voice would mount above : 
Oh ! she is all that still to earth can bind — 
And this will break a heart so more than kind, 
And blight a form — till thine appear'd,Guln are! 
Mine eye ne'er ask'd if others were as fair.* 

" Thou lov'st another then ? — but what to ma 
Is this — 't is nothing — nothing e'er can be: 
But yet — thou lov'st — and — Oh ! I envy those 
Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose, 
Who never feel the void — the wandering 
thought [wrought." 

That sighs o'er visions — such as mine hath 

" Lady — methought thy love was his, for whom 
This arm rcdeem'd thee from a fiery tomb." 

"My love stern Seyd's! Oh — No— No — no*. 

my love — [strove 

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, one* 
To meet his passion — but it would not be. 
I felt — I feel — loved wells with — with the free. 
I am a slave, a favour'd slave at best, 
To share his splendour, and seem very blest! 
Oft must my soul the question undsrgo, 
Of — 'Dost thou love?' and burn to answe* 

'No!' 
Oh ! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 
And struggle not to feel averse in vain; 
But harder still the heart's recoil 2o bear. 
And hide from one — perhaps another there. 
He takes the hand I give not — nor withhold — 
Its pulse nor check' d — nor quicken' d — calmly 

cold : 
And when reaign'd, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never jfoved enough to hate. 
No warmth these lips return by his imprest, 
And chill'd remembrance shudders o'er the rest 
Yes — had I ever proved that passion's zeal, 
The change to hatred were at least to feel: 
But still — he goes unmourn'd — returns un. 

sought — 
And oft when present — absentfrom my thought 
Or when reflection come* — and come itmust— 
I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust; 
I am his slave — but, in despite of pride, 
T were worse than hondasre to h< come his bride 



THE CORSAIR. 



4] 



Oh ! that this dotage of his breast would ease . 
Or seek another and give mine release, 
Rut yesterday — 1 could have said, to peace! 
Yes — if unwonted fondness now I feign, 
Remember — captive ! 't is to break thy chain ; 
Repay the life that to thy hand I owe ; 
To give thee back to all endcar'd below, 
Who share such love as I can never know. 
Farewell — mora breaks — and I must now 

away : day ! " 

T will cost me dear — but dread no death *o- 



Sh c press'd his fettcr'd fingers to her heart, 
And bow'd her head, and turn'd her to depart, 
And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone. 
And was she here? and is he now alone? 
What gem hath dropp'd and sparkles o'er his 

chain? 
The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain, 
That starts at once — bright — pure — from Pity's 

mine 
iiready polish'd by the hand divine' 

Oa ! too ci~Tvincing — dangerously dear-~ 
In woman's eye the unanswerable tear ! 
That weapon of her weakness she can wield, 
To save, subdue — at once her spear and shield- 
Avoid it — Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs, 
Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers! 
What lost a world, and bade a hero rly? 
The timid lear in Cleopatra's eye. 
Yet be the soft triumvir's fault forgiven ; 
Rythis — how many lose not earth — but heaven! 
Consign their souls to man's eternal foe, 
And seal their own to spare some wanton's woe. 



xvx. 
-and o'er his altered features play 
— without the hope of yesterday, 
he be ere night? perchance a thing, 
the raven flaps her funeral wing, 
ed eye unheeded and unfelt; 
that sun, and dews of evening melt, 
—and mistv round each stiffen'd 



Tis morn- 
The beams- 
What shall 
O'er which 
By his clos 
While sets 
Chill— wet- 
limb, 
Refi eshing earth — reviving all but him ! 



CANTO THE THIRD. 
'Coc;svedi — ancornonm'abbandona." Dantb 

I. 
S-.ow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
(tlong Morea's hills the setting sun: 



Not as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light! 
O'er the hush'd deepthe ye.low beamhe thro* 4 
Gilds the green wave, that trembles as it glows, 

On old .Etna's rock, and Idra's isle, 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile; 
O'er his own regions lingering, loves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss 
Thy glorious gulf, unconqucr'd Salamis! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse 
Moredeeply purpled meethis mellowin^glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues oi 

heaven ; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, 
When — Athens! here thy Wisest look'd hi* 

last 
How watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray 
That closed their murder'd sage's 14 latest day ! 
Nor yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill — 
The precious hour of parting lingers still; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes : 
jloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land, where Phoebus never frown'd before; 
But ere he sank below Cithaeron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff d — the spirit ded; 
The soul of him who scorn' d to fear or fly — 
Who lived and died, as none can live or die' 

But lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain, 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign.'* 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, nor girds her glowing form 
With cornice glimmering as the moon-beami 

play, 
There the white column greets her gratefuhay 
And, bright around with quivering beams beset 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret ■ 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide 
Where meek Cephisus pours his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosqu* 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, 16 
And, dun and sombre 'mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane yon solitary palm, 
All tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye— 
And dull were histhatpass'd them heedless by 

Again the -Egean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental vai; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long array of sapphire ;ind of pold, 



42 



THE CORSAIR. 



M'ui'd witn the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown — where gentler ocean seems to 

smile. 

ii. 
Not now mv theme — why turn my tnoughts to 

thee? " 
Oh ' who can look along thy native sea, 
Nor dwell upon thy name, whate'er the tale, 
So much its magic must o'er all prevail? 
Who that beheld that Sun upon thee set, 
Fair Athens! could thine evening lace forget? 
Ni>t he — whose heart nor time nor distance 

frees, 
Spell-bound within the clustering Cyclades ! 
Nor seems this homage foreign to his strain, 
His Corsair's isle was once thine own domain — 
Would that with freedom it were thine again ! 



The Sun hath sunk — and, darker than the night, 
Sinks with its beam upon the beacon height 
Medora's heart — the ihira day 's come and 

gone — [one ! 

With it he comes not — sends not — faithless 
The wind was fair though light; and storms 

were none. 
Last eve Anselmo's bark return'd, and yet 
Bis only tidings that they had not met ! 
Though wild, as now, far different were the tale 
Had Conrad waited for that single sail. 

The night-breeze freshens; — she that day had 

pass'd 
In watching a^l that Hopeproclaim'd a mast; 
Sadly she sate — on high — Impatience bore 
At last her footsteps to the midnight shore, 
And there she wander'd, heedless of the spray 
That da.sh'd her garments oft, and warn'd away: 
She saw not — felt not this — nor dared depart, 
Nor deem'd it cold — her chill was at her heart; 
Till grew such certainty from that suspense — 
His very sight had shock'd from life or sense! 

It came at last — a sad and shatter'd boat, 
Whose inmates first beheld whom first they 

sought; [few — • 

Some bleeding — nil most wretched — these the 
Scarce knew they how escaped — this all they 

knew. 
In silence, darkling, each appear'd to wait 
His fellow's mournful guess at Conrad's fate: 
Something they would have said; but seem'd 

to fear 
To trust their accents to Medora's ear. 
She saw at once, yet sunk not — trembled not — 
Beneath that grief, tha*. loneliness of lot, 



Within that meek fair forn rere fee lings high. 
That deem'd not till they f njid their energy. 
While yet was Hope — they soften'd — ilut 

ter'd — wept — 
All lost — that softness died not — but it ? lept ; 
And o'er its slumber rose that Strength which 

said, [dread." 

"With nothing left to love — there 's nought to 
'T is more than nature's.; like the burning might 
Delirium gathers from the fever's height. 

" Silent you stand — nor would I hear vou tell 
W T hat — speak not — breathe not — for I know it 

well- 
Yet w.'iild I ask — almost my lip denies 
The — quick your answer — tell me where he 

ltes." 

" Lady ! we know not — scarce with life we fled. 

But here is one denies that he is dead : 

He saw him bound ; and bleeding — but alive " 

She heard no further — 'twas in vain to strive — 
So throbb'd each vein — each thought — till then 

withstood; [duel - 

Her own dark soul — these words at once sub- 
She totters — falls — and senseless had the wave 
Perchance but snatch' d her from another grave; 
But that with hands though rude, yet weeping 

eyes, 
They yield such aid as Pity's haste supplies: 
Dash o'er her deathlike cheek the ocean dew, 
Raise — fan — sustain — till life returns anew , 
Awake her handmaids, with the matrons leave 
That fainting form o'er which they gaze and 

grieve; 
Then seek Anselmo's cavern, to report 
The tale too tedious — when the triumph short 



In that wild council words wax'd warm and 

strange, 
With thoughts of ransom, rescue, and revenge; 
All, save repose or flight: still lingering there 
Breathed Conrad's spirit, and forbade despair; 
Whate'er his fate — the breasts he form'd and 

led, 
Will save him living, or appease him dead. 
Woe to his foes ! there yet survive a few, 
Whose deeds are daring, as their hearts are true. 



Within the Haram's secret chamber sat/t 
Stern Seyd, still pondering o'er his Captive a 

fate ; 
His thoughts on love and hate alternate dwell 
Now with Gulnare, and now in Conrad's ceil; 



THE CORSAIR. 



Here at hi* feet the lovely slave reclined 
Surveys his brow — would soothe his gloom of 
mind ; [eye 

While many an anxious glance her large dark 
Sends in its idle search for sympathy, 
His only bends in seeming o'er his beads,' 7 
But inly views his victim as he bleeds. 

"Pacha! the day is thine; and on thy crest 
Sits Triumph — Conrad taken — fall'n the rest! 
His doom is fix'd — he dies: and well his fate 
Was eam'd — yet much too worthless for thy 

hate : 
Methinks, a short release, for ransom told 
With all his treasure, not unwisely sold ; 
Report speaks largely of his pirate-hoard — 
Would that of this my Pacha were the lord ! 
While bathed, weaken'd by this fatal fray — 
Watch' d — follow' d — he were then an easier 

prey; 
But once cut off — the remnant of his band 
Embark their wealth, and seek a safer strand." 

" Gulnare ! — if for each drop of blood a gem 

Were offer'd rich as Stamboul's diadem ; 

If for each hair of his a massy mine 

Of virgin ore should supplicating shine; 

If all our Arab tales divulge or dream 

Of wealth were here — that gold should not 

redeem ! 
It had not now redeem'd a single hour ; 
But that I know him fetter'd, in my power; 
And, thirsting for revenge, I ponder still 
On pangs that longest rack, and latest kill." 

" Nay, Se.yd ! — I seek not to restrain thy rage, 
Too j ustly moved for mercy to assuage ; 
My thoughts were only to secure for thee 
His riches — thus released, he were not free: 
Disabled, shorn of half his might and band, 
His capture could but wait thy first command. " 

"His capture could. .' — and shall I then resign 
f>n° day to him — *he wretch already mine? 
Release my foe ! — at wnose remonstrance ? — 

thine ! 
Fair suitor! — to thy virtuous gratitude, 
That thus repays this Giaour's relenting mood, 
Which mee and thine alone of all could spare, 
No doubt — regardless if the prize were fair, 
My thanks and praise alike are due — now hear ! 
I have a counsel for thy gentler ear : 
I do mistrust thee, woman ! and each word 
Of thine stamps truth on all Suspicion heard, 
"orne in his arms through fire from yon Serai — 
Say, wert thou lingering there with him to fly? 



Thou need'st not answer— thy confession 
speaks, 

Already reddening on thy guilty checks ; 
Then, lovely dame, bethink thee ! and beware 
'T is not hi* life alone may claim such care. 
Another word and — nay — I need no more. 
Accursed was the moment when he bore 
Thee from the flames, which better far — but 

— no — 
I then had mourn'd thee with a lover's woe — 
Now't is thy lord that warns — deceitful thing! 
Know'st thou that I can clip thy wanton wing? 
In words alone I am not wont to chafe: 
Look to thyself — nor deem thy falsehood safe ! " 

He rose — and slowly, sternly thence withdrew, 
Rage in his eye and threats in his adieu : 
Ah ! little reck'd that chief of womanhood — 
Which frowns ne'er quell'd, nor menaces sub- 
dued ; 
And little deem'd he what thy heart, Gulnare! 
When soft could feel, and when incensed could 
dare. [knew 

His doubts appear' d to wrong — nor yet she 
How deep the root from whence compassion 

grew — 
She was a slave — from such may captives claim 
A fellow-feeling, differing but in name; 
Still half unconscious — heedless of his wrath, 
Again she ventured on the dangerous path, 
Again his rage repell'd — until arose 
That strife of thought, the source of woman's 



Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the 
same [tame — 

Roll'd day and night — his soul could never 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than 

dead, 
When every step that echo'd by the gate 
Might entering lead where axe and stake await; 
When every voice that grated on his ear 
Might be the last that he could ever hear ; 
Could terror tame — that spirit stern and high 
Had proved unwilling as unfit to die; 
*T was worn — perhaps decay' d — yet silent b'.re 
That conflict, deadlier far than all before - 
The heat of fight, the hurry of the gale, 
Leave scarce one thought inert enough to qwul ; 
But bound and fix'd in fetter'd solitude, 
To pine, the prey of every changing mood ; 
To gaze on thine own heart ; and meditate 
Irrevocable faidts, and coming fate — 
Too late the last to shun — the first to mend- 
To count the hours that struggle to thine fikd,, 



44 



THE CORSAIR. 



With not a friend to animate, ana icf 
To other ears that death becamp thee well; 
Around thee foes to forge the ready lie, 
And blot life s latest scene with calumny ; 
Before thse tortures, which the soul can dare, 
Yet doubts how well the shrinking flesh may 

bear ; 
But deeply feels a SEgle cry would shame, 
To valour's praise thy last and dearest claim , 
The life. thou leav'st below, denied above 
By kind monopolists of heavenly love ; 
And more than doubtful paradise — thy heaven 
Of c-arthlyhope — thy loved one from thee riven. 
Such were the thoughts that outlaw mustsustain, 
And govern pangs surpassing mortal pain: 
And those sustain' d he — boots it well or ill? 
Since not to sink beneath, is something still ! 



The first day pass'd — he saw not her — Gul- 

nare — [there; 

The second — third — and still she came not 
But what her words avouch'd, her charms had 

done, 
Or else he had not seen another sun. 
The fourth day roll'd along, and with the night 
Came storm and darkness in their mingling 

might: 
Oh ! how he listen'd to the rushing deep, 
That ne'er till now so bi-oke upon his sleep; 
And his wild spirit wilder wishes sent, 
Roused by the roar of his own element ! 
Oft had he ridden on that winged wave, 
And loved its roughness for the speed it gave; 
And now its dashing echo'd on his ear, 
A long known voice — alas ! too vainly near ! 
Loud sung the wind above ; and, doubly loud, 
Shook o'er his turret cell the thunder-cloud; 
And fiash'd the lightning by the latticed bar, 
To bim more genial than the midnight star: 
Close to the glimmering grate he dragg'd his 

chain, 
And hoped that peril might not prove in vain. 
He raised his iron hand to Heaven, andpray'd 
One pitying flash to mar the form it made: 
His steel and impious prayer attract alike — 
The storm roll'd onward, and disdain'd to strike ; 
Its peal wax'd fainter — ceased — he felt alone, 
As if some faithless friend had spurn'd his groan! 



The midnight pass'd— and to the massy door 
A light step came — it paused — it moved once 

more; 
Slow turns the grating bolt and sullen key: 
T is as his heart foreboded — that fair she ! 



Wnate er her sins, to him a gya: lian saint, 
A nd beauteous still as hermit'shope can paintj 
Yet changed since last within that cell she came, 
More pale her cheek, more tremulous her frame: 
On him she cast her dark and hurried eye, 
Which spoke before her ?ccents — "Thou must 

die ! 
Yes, thou must die — there is but one resource, 
The last — the worst — if torture were not worse." 

" Lady ! I look to none — my lips proclaim 
What last proclaim'd they — Conrad still the 
same: [spare, 

Why should'st thou seek an outlaw's life to 
And change the sentence I deserve to bear? 
Well have I earn'd — nor here alone — the meed 
Of Seyd's revenge, by many a lawless deed." 

" Why should I seek ? because — Oh ! didst thou 

not 
Redeem my life from worse than slavery's lot? 
Whv should I seek ? — hath misery made thee 

" blind 
To the fond workings of a woman's mind? 
And must I say? albeit my heart rebel 
With all that woman feels, but should not tell — 
Because — despite thy crimes — that heart is 

moved: [ — loved. 

It fear'd thee — thank'dthee — pitied — madden'd 
Reply not, tell not now thy tale again, 
Thou iov'st another — and I. love in vain, 
Though fond as mine her bosom, form more fair, 
I rush through peril which she would not dare. 
If that thy heart to hers were truly dear, 
Were I thine own — thouwert not lonely here: 
An outlaw's spouse — and leave her lord to roam ! 
What hath such gentle dame to do with home? 
But speak not now — o'er thine and o'er my head 
Hangs the keen sabre by a single thread ; 
If thou hast courage still, and would' st be free, 
Receive this poniard — rise — and follow me!" 

" Ay — in my chains ! my steps will gently tread, 
With these adornments, o'er each slumbering 

head! 
Thou hast forgot — is this a garb for flight? 
Or is that instrument more fit for fight?" 

" Misdoubting Corsair! I ha ve gain'dthe guard, 
Ripe for revolt, and greedy for reward, 
A single word of mine removes that chain. 
Without some aid how here could I remain? 
Well, since we met, hath sped my busy tune, 
If in aught evil, for thy sake the crime : 
The crime — 'tis none to punish those of S^.y J 
That hated tyrant, Gonrad — he must bleed ! 



THE CORSAIR. 



45 



I see Uiee sninvcer — but my soul is changed — 
Wtong'd, spuru'd, reviled — and it shall be 

avenged — 
Accused of what till now my heart disdain'd — 
Too faithful, though to bitter bondage ehain'd. 
Yes, smile! — but he had little cause to sneer, 
I \v as not treacherous then — nor thou too dear : 
But he lias said it — and the jealous well, 
Those tyrants, teasing, tempting to rebel, 
Deserve the fate their fretting lips foretell. 
I never loved — he bought me — somewhat 

high— 
Since with me came a heart he could not buy. 
I was a slave unmurmuring: he hath said, 
But for his rescue I with thee had fled. 
'Twos false thou know* St — but let such augurs 

rue, 
Their words are omens Insult renders true. 
Nor was thy respite granted to my prayer; 
This fleeting grace was only to prepare 
New torments for thy life, and my despair. 
Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still 
Would fain reserve me for k ; s \-n:A\ will: 
When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, 
There yawns the sack — and yonder rolls the 

sea ' 
What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, 
To wear but till the gilding frets away? 
I saw thee — loved thee — owe thee all— -would 

save, 
If but to show how grateful is a slave. 
But had he not thus menaced fame and life, 
(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in 

strife.) 
I still had saved thee — but the Pacha spared. 
Now I am all thine own — for all prepared : 
Thou lov'st me not — nor know'st — or but the 

worst. 
Alas! this love — that hatred are the first — 
Oh ! could'stthouprove my truth, thou would'st 

net .start. 
Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart ; 
'T is now the beacon of thy safety — now 
It points within the port a Mainote prow : 
But in one chamber, where our path must lead, 
There sleeps — he must not wake — the oppressor 

Seyd ! '• 

"Gulnare — Gulnare — I never felt till now 
My abject fortune, wither d fame so low: 
Seyd is mine enemy: had swept my band 
From earth with ruthless but with open hand 
And therefore came I, in my bark of war, 
To smite the smiter with the scimitar ; 
Such is my weapon — not the secret knife — 
Who ipares a woman's seeks not slumber's lite. 



Thine saved I gladly, Lady, not for this — 
Let me not deem that mercy shown amiss. 
Now fare thee well — more peace be witu ihj 

breast ! 
Night wears apace — my last of earthly rest! " 

" Rest ! rest ! by sunrise must thy sinews shake, 
And thy limbs writhe around the ready stake 
I heard the order — saw — I will not see — 
If thou wilt perish, I will fall with thee. 
My life — my love — my hatred — ail below 
Are on this cast — Corsair ! 't is but a blow ! 
Without it flight were idle — how evade 
His sure pursuit? my wrongs too unrepaid, 
My youth disgraced — the long, long wasted 

years, 
One blow shall cancel with our future fears ; 
But since the dagger suits thee less than brand, 
I '11 try the firmness of a female hand. 
The guards are gain'd — one moment all wen 

o'er — 
Corsair ! we meet in safety or no more , 
If errs my feeble hand, the morning cloua 
Will hover o'er thy scaffold, and my shroud. 

IX. 

She turn'd, and vanish'd ere he could reply, 
But his glance followed far with eager eye ; 
And gathering, as he could, the links that bound 
His form, to curl their length, and curb theii 

sound, 
Since bar and bolt no more his steps preclude. 
He, fast as fetter'd limbs allow, pursued. 
'T was dark and winding, and he knew not 

where [there ■ 

That passage led ; nor lamp nor guard wen 
He sees a dusky glimmering — shall he seek 
Or shun that ray so indistinct and weak'* 
Chance guides his steps — a freshness seems 

bear 
Full on his brow, as if from morning air — 
He reach'd an open gallery — on his i«yc 
Gleam' d the last star of night, theelearing >ky s 
Yet scarcely heeded these — another lighl 
From a lone chamber struck upon his sight. 
Towards it he moved; a scarcely closing dou 
Reveal'd the ray within, but nothing more 
With hasty step a figure outward past, 
Then paused — and turn'd — and paused — ': is 

She at last ! 
No poniard in that hand — nor sign of ill — 
" Thanks to that softening heart — she eouM 

not kill!" 
Again he look'd, the wildness of her era 
Starts from the day abrupt and fearfully. 



4:6 



THE CORSAIK 



She str pp'd — threw back her aark la'- -floating 

hnir, 
That nearly veil'd her face and bosom fair: 
As if she late had bent her leaning head 
Above some object of her doubt 01 dread. 
They meet — upon her brow — unknown — for- 
got — 
Her hurrying hand had left — 't was but a spot — 
Its hue was all he saw, and scarce withstood — 
Oh. slight but certain pledge of crime — 'tis 
blood ! 

x. 

He had seen battle — he had brooded lone 
O'er promised pangs to sentenced guilt fore- . 

shown ; [chain 

He had been tempted — chastened — and the 
Yet on his arms might ever there remain : 
But ne'er from strife — captivity — remorse — 
From all his feelings in their inmost force — 
So thrill'd — so shudder' d every creeping vein, 
As now they froze before that purple stain. 
That spot of blood, that light but guilty streak, 
Had banish' d all the beauty from her cheek ! 
Blood he had view'd — could view unmoved — 

but then 
It flow'd in combat, or was shed by men ! 

XI. 

"'Tis done — he nearly waked — but it is done. 
Corsair ! he perish' d — thou art dearly won. 
All words would now be vain — away — away! 
Our bark is tossing — 't is already day 
The few gain'd over, now are wholly mine, 
Arl these thy yet surviving band shall join: 
Anon my voice shall vindicate my hand, 
When once our sail forsakes tins hated strand." 



She clapp'd her hands — and through the gal- 
lery pour, [Moor; 
Equipp'd for flight, her vassals — Greek and 
Silent but quick they stoop, his chains unbind ; 
Once more his limbs are free as mountain wind ! 
Bat on his heavy heart such sadness sate, 
As if they there transferee! that iron weight. 
No word's are utter d — at her sign, a door 
Reveals the secret passage to the shore; 
The city lies behind — they speed, ihey reach 
The glad waves dancing on the yellow beach; 
And Conrad following, at her beck, obey'd, 
Nor cared he now if rescued or betray'd; 
Resistance were as useless as if Seyd 
Vet lived to view the doom his ire decreed 



XIII. 

Embark' d, the sail unfurl'd, the light brrwj* 

blew- 
How much had Conrad's memory to review! 
Sunk he in Contemplation, till the cape 
Where last he anchor' d rear'd its giant shape. 
Ah ! — since that fatal night, though brief the 

time, 
Had swept an age of terror, grief, and crime 
As its far shadow frown'd above the mast, 
He veil'd his face, and sorrow'd as he pass'4j 
He thought of all — Gonsalvo and his band. 
His fleeting triumph and his failing hand ; 
He thought on her afar, his lonely bride : 
He tum'd and saw — Gulnarc, the homicide ! 

XIV. 

She watch'd his features till she could not bear 
Their freezing aspect and averted air, 
And that strange fierceness foreign to her eye, 
Fell quench'd in tears, too late to shed or dry. 
She knelt beside him and his hand she preas'd, 
" Thou may'st forgive though Alias self detest. 
But for that deed of darkness what wert thou? 
Reproach me — but not yet — Oh ! spare me now! 
I am not what I seem — this fearful night 
My brain bewilder' d — do not madden quite ! 
If I had never loved — though less my guilt, 
Thou hadst not lived to — hate me — if thou wilt." 



She wrongs nis thoughts, they more himself 
upbraid [made; 

Than her, though undesign'd, the wretch he 
But speechless all, deep, dark, and unexprest, 
They bleed within that silent cell — his breast 
Still onward, fair the breeze.nor rough the surge. 
The blue waves sport around the stern they urge; 
Far on the horizon's verge appears a speck, 
A spot — a mast — a sail — an armed deck ! 
Their little bark her men of watch descry, 
And ampler canvass woos the wind from high; 
She bears her doVn majestically near, 
•Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier; 
A flash is seen — the ball beyond their bow 
Booms harmless, hissing to the deep below. 
Up rose keen Conrad from his silent trance, 
A lor>g, long absent gladness in his glance; 
"Tismine — my blood-red flag! again — again— 
I am not all deserted on the main ! " 
They own the signal, answer to the haU 
Hoist out the boat at once, and slacken sail. 
"'Tis Conrad! Conrad!" shouting from the 

deck, 
Command nor di ity could their transport check 



■i ■'■' ■ "■ ■■ 



THE CORSAIR. 



47 



Willi light alacrity and gaze of [ride, 

They view him mount once more his vessel's 

side : 
A smile relaxing in each rugged face, 
Their arms can scarce forbear a rough embrace. 
He, half forgetting danger and defeat, 
Keturns their greeting as a chief may greet, 
Wrings with r. cordial grasp Anselmo*s hand, 
And feels he yet can conquer ana command I 



Theso greetings o'er, the feelings that o'erflow, 
Yet grieve to win him back without a blow ; 
They sail'd prepared for vengeance — had they 

known 
A woman's hand secured that deed her own, 
She were their queen — less scrupulous are they 
Than haughty Conrad how they <vin their way. 
With many an asking smile and wondering 

stare, 
They whisper round, and gaze upon Gulnare; 
And her. at once above— beneath her sex, 
Whom blood appall'd not, their regards perplex - , 
To Conrad turns her faint imploring eye, 
She drops her veil, and stands in silence by; 
Her arms are meekly folded on that breast, 
Which — Conrad safe — to fate resign'd the rest 
Though worse than frenzy could that bosom fill, 
Extreme in love or bate, in good or ill. 
The worst of crimes bad left her woman still! 



This Conrad mark'd, and felt — ah! could ht 

less ? — 
Hate of that deed — but grief for her distress; 
What she has done no tears can wash away, 
And Heaven must punish on its angry day: 
But — it was done: he knew, whate'erher guilt, 
For him that poniard smote, that blood was 

spilt; 
And he was free! — ar.d she for him had given 
Her all on earth, and more than all in heaven 
And nowheturn'd him to that dark -eyed slave, 
Whose brow was bow'd beneath the glance he 

gave, 
Who now seem'd changed and humbled:— 

faint and meek, 
But varying oft the color of her cheek 
To deeper shades of paleness — all its red 
That fearful spot which stain'd it from the dead! 

He took that hand— it trembled— now too late 

So scft in love— so wildly nerved in hate; 
He clasp'd that hand — it trembled — and bis 

own 
Cad lost its firmness, and his voice its tone. 



"Gulnare!"— but she replied not— "deal Jul- 

nare ! " 
She raised her eye— her only answer there— 
At once she sought and sunk in Ids embrace: 
If he had driven her from that resting-place, 
His had been more or less than mortal heart 
But— good or ill— it bade her not depart. 
Perchance, but for the bodinga of bis breast, 
His latest virtue then had join'd the rest 
Yet even Medora might forgive the kiss 
That ask'd from form so fair no more than this, 
The first, the last that Frailty stole from Faith— 
To lips where Love bad lavish 'd all his breath, 
To lips — whose broken sighs such fragrance 

fling 
As he bad fann'd them freshly with his wing I 

xvin. 
They gain by twilight's hour their lonely isle. 
To them the very rocks appear to smile: 
The haven hums with many a cheering sound, 
The beacons blaze their wonted stations round, 
The boats are darting o'er the curly bay, 
And sportive dolphins bend them through the 

spray ; [shriek 

Even the hoarse sea-bird's shrill, discordant 
Greets like the welcome of his tuneless oeak ! 
Beneath each lamp tlmt through its lattice 

gleams. [beams. 

Their fancy paints the friends that trim the 
Oh ! what can sanctify the joys of home, 
Like Hope's gay glance from Ocean's troubled 

foam '? 



The lights are high on beacon and from bower, 
And 'midst them Conrad seeks Medora' s tower: 
He looks in vain— 'tis strange— and all remark, 
Amid so many, hers alone is dark. 
Tis strange— of yore its welcome never fail'd, 
Nor now, perchance, extinguish'd, only veil'd. 
With the first boat descends he for the shore 
And looks impatient on the lingering oar, 
Oh ! for a wing beyond the falcon's flight, 
To bear him like an arrow to that height! 
With the first pause the resting rowers gave, 
He waits not — looks not- — leaps into the wave, 
Strives through the surge, bestrides the beach, 

and high 
Ascends the path familiar to his eye. 

He reach 'd his turret door — he paused — no 

sound 
Broke from within ; and all was night around 
He knock'd and loudly— footstep nor reply, 
Announced that any beard or deem'd him nigh 



48 



THE CORSAIR. 



He knock a— out faintly — for his trembling 

hand 
Refused to aid nis heavy heart's demand. 
The portal opens — 'tis a well known face — 
But not the form he panted to embrace. 
Its lips are silent — twice his own essay'd, 
And fail'd to frame the question they delay'd; 
He snatch' d the lamp — its light will answer 

all- 
It quits his grasp, expiring in the fall 
He would not wait for that reviving ray — 
As soon could he have linger' d there for day ; 
But, glimmering through the dusky corridore, 
Another chequers o'er the shadow'd floor; 
His steps the chamber gain — his eyes behold 
<U1 that his heart believed not — yet foretold! 



He turn'd not — spoke not — sunk not — fix'dhis 

look, 
And set the anxious frame that lately shook: 
He gazed — how long we gaze despite of pain, 
And know, but dare not own, we gaze in vain ! 
In life itself she was so still and fair, 
That death with gentker aspect wither' d there; 
And the cold flowers 18 her colderhandcontain'd, 
In that last grasp as tenderly were strain'd 
As if she scarcely felt, but feign'd a sleep, 
And made it almost mockery yet to weep : 
The long dark lashes fringed her lids of snow, 
And veif d — thought shrinks from all that lurk' d 

below — 
Oh ! o'er the eye Death most exerts his might, 
And hurls the "spirit from her throne of light; 
Sinks those blue orbs in that long last eclipse, 
But spares, as yet, the charm around her lips — 
Yet, yet they seem as they forbore to smile, 
And wish'd repose — but only for a while; 
But the white shroud, and each extended tress, 
Long — fair — but spread in utter lifelessness, 
Which, late the sport of every summer wind, 
Escaped the baffled wreath that strove to bind. 
These — and the pale pm - e cheek, became the 

bier — 
But she is nothing — wherefore is he here? 



He ask'd no question — all were answer' £ now 
By the first glance on that still — marble 1 vow. 
It was enough — she died — whatreck'd it how? 
The love of youth, the hope of better year*, 
The source of softest wishes, tenderest feai<», 
The only living thing he could not hate, 
Was reft at once — and he deserved his fate, 



But did not feel it less; — the good explore. 
For peace, these realms where guilt can ne rti 

soar: 
The proud — the wayward — who have fix'd 

below 
Their joy, and find this earth enough for woe, 
Lose in that one their all — perchance a mite — 
But who in patience parts with all delight? 
Full many a stoic eye and aspect stern 
Mask hearts where grief hath little left to learn ; 
And many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, 
In smiles that least befit who wear them most 



By those, that deepest feel, is ill exprest 
The indistinctness of the suffering breast ; 
Where thousand thoughts begin to end in one, 
Which seeks from all the refuge found in none; 
No words suffice the secret soul to show, 
For Truth denies all eloquence to Woe. 
On Conrad's stricken soul exhaustion prest, 
And stupor almost lull'd it into rest; 
So feeble now — his mother's softness crejpt 
To those wild eyes, which like an infant's wept : 
It was the very weakness of his brain, 
Which thus confess'd without relieving pain. 
None saw his tricklingtears — perchance, if seen, 
That useless flood of grief had never been : 
Nor long they flow'd — he dried them to depart, 
In helpless — hopeless — brokenness of heart : 
The sun goes forth— but Conrad's day is dim; 
And the night cometh — n e'er to pass from hi in. 
There is no darkness like the cloud of mind, 
On Griefs vain eye— -the blindest 01 the blind! 
Which may not — dare not see — but turns asidfl 
To blackest shade — nor will endure a gu'de ! 



His heart was form'd for softness — warp'd to 

wrong ; 
Betray' d too early, aud beguiled too long; 
Each'feeling pure — as falls the dropping dc<* 
Within the grot; like that had harden'tt too; 
Less clear, perchance, its earthly trials j.ass'd. 
But sunk, and chill'd, and petrified at la>t. 
Yet tempests wear, and lightning cleave- the 

rock, 
If such his heart, so shattered it the sh.uk. 
There grew one flower beneath its rugged brow, 
Though dark the shade — it shelter' d— -wived 

till now. 
The thunder came — that bolt hath blasted boti. 
The Granite's firmness, and the Lily's growth 
The gentle plant hath left no leaf to lei. 
Its tale, but shrunk and wither'd where it fail* 



THE CORSAIR. 



4 ( J 



And of its cold protector, blacken round 
But shiver (1 fragments on the barren ground 



T is morn — to venture on his lonely hour 
Few dare ; though now Anselmo sought his 

tower. 
He was not there — nor seen aiong the shore ; 
Ere night, alarcn'd, their isle is traversed 

o'er : 
Inomer morn — another bids them seek, 
And shout bis name till echo waxeth weak ; 



Mount — grotto — cavern — valley search 'd iu 

vain, 
They find on shore a sea-boat's broken chain : 
Their hope revives — they follow o'er the main 
'T is idle all — moons roll on moons away, 
And Conrad comes not — came not since that 

day : 
Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare 
Where lives his grief, or perish' d his despair ! 
Long mourn' d his band whom none could 

mourn beside ; 
And fair the monument they gave his bride: 
For him they raise not the recording stone — 
Hisdeath yetdubious, deeds too widely known; 
He left a Corsair's name to other times, 
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand < 



3Lara ; a Cale* 



liara. 



CANTO THE FIRST. 



The Serfs' are glad through Lara's wide 

domain, 
And slavery half forgets her feudal chain; 
He, their unhoped, but unforgotten lord, 
The long self-exiled chieftain, is restored : 
There be bright faces in the busy hall, 
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ; 
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays 
The unwonted faggots' hospitable blaze ; 
And gay retainers gather round the hearth, 
With tongues all loudness, and with eyes all 

mirth. 

n. 
The chief of Lara is retum'd again : 
And why had Lara cross'd the bounding main ? 
Left by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself; — that heritage of woe, 
That fearful empire which the human breast 
But holds to rob the heart within of rest! — 
With none to check and few to point in time 
The thousand paths that slope the way to crime ; 
Then, when he most required commandment, 

then 
Had Lara's daring boyhood govem'd men. 
It skills not, boots not step by step to trace 
His youth through all the mazes of its race; 
Short was the course his restlessness had run, 
Bu. long enough to leave him half undone 



And Lara left in youth his fathe--!aiid ; 
But from the hour he wavtd his parting hmfj 
Each trace wax'd fainter of his course, till ai 
Had nearly ceased nis memory to recall. 
His sire was dust, his vassals co.ud declare, 
'T was all they knew, that Lara was not there; 
Nor sent, nor came he, till cor jecture grew 
Cold in the many, anxious in the few. 
His hail scarce echoes with his wonted nam^ 
His portrait darkens in its fading frame, 
Another chief consoled his destined bride, 
The young forgot him, and the old had died ; 
" Yet doth he live!" exclaims the impatientheic 
And sighs for sables which he must not wear. 
A hundred scutcheons deck with gloomy grace 
The Laras' last and longest dwelling-place ; 
But one is absent from the mouldering file, 
That now were welcome in that Gothic pile. 

IV. 

He comes at last in sudden loneliness, 
And whence they know not, why they need 
not guess; [o'er. 

They more might marvel, when the greeting's 
Not that he came, bur came not long before- 
No train is his beyond a single page. 
Of foreign aspect, and of tender agv. 
Years had roll'd on, and fast they speed awaj 
To those that wander as to those that stay ; 
But lack of tidings from another clime 
Had lent a flagging wing to weary Time. 
They see, they recognise, yet almost deem 
The present dubious, or the past a dream. 

He lives, nor yet is past his manhood's prime, 
Though sear'd* by toil, and something touch'd 
by time ; 



LARA. 



51 



His fai Its, whate'cr they were, if scarce forgot, 
Might be untaught him by his varied lot; 
Nor good nor ill of late were known, his name 
Might yet uphold his patrimonial fame: 
His soul in youth was haughty, but his sins 
No more than pleasure from the stripling wins; 
And such, if not yet harden'd in their course, 
Might be redeem' d, nor ask a long remorse. 

v. 

And they indeed were changed — 't is quickly 

seen, 
Whate'er he be, 'twas not what he had been: 
That brow in furrow" d lines had iix'd at last, 
And spake of passions, but of passion past: 
The pride, but not the fire, of early days, 
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise; 
A high demeanour, and a glance that took 
Their thoughts from others by a single look; 
And that sarcastic levity of tongue, 
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung, 
That darts in seeming playfulness around, 
And makes those feel that will not own the 

wound ; [neath, 

All these seem'd his, and something more be- 
Than glance could well reveal,oraceentbreathe. 
Ambition, glory, love, the common aim, 
That some can conqueiytnd that all would claim, 
Within his breast appear'd no more to strive, 
Yet seem'd as lately they had been alive; 
And some deep feeling it were vain to trace 
At moments lighten' d o'er his livid face. 

VI. 

Not much he loved long question of the past, 
Nor told of wondrous wilds, and deserts vast, 
In those far lands where he had wander'd lone, 
And — as himself would have it seem — un- 
known : 
Yet these in vain his eye could scarcely scan, 
Nor glean experience from his fellow man ; 
But what he had beheld he shunn'd to show, 
As hardly worth a stranger's care to know; 
If still more prying such inquiry grew, 
His brow fell darker, and his words more few. 



Not unrejoiced to see him once again, 
Warm was his welcome to the haunts of men; 
Born of high lineage, link'd iu high command, 
He mingled with the Magnates of his land ; 
Join'd the carousals of the great and gay, 
And saw them smile or sigh their hours away; 
But still he only saw, and did not share, 
The common pl«">.su«* the general care; 



He did not follow what they all pursued, 
With hope still baffled still to be renew'd; 
Nor shadowy honour, nor substantial gain. 
Nor beauty's preference, and the rival's pain 
Around him some mysterious circle thrown 
Repell'd approach, and show'd him still alone' 
Upon his eye sat something of reproof, 
That kept at least frivolity aloof; 
And things more timid that beheld him near 
In silence gazed, or whisper'd mutual fear ; 
And they the wiser, friendlier few confess'd 
They deem'd him better than his air express d 

vm. 

T was strange — in youth all action and all lifr. 
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife ; 
Woman — the field — the ocean — all that gare 
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave, 
In turn he tried — he ransack'd all below, 
And found his recompence in joy or woe, 
No tame, trite medium; for his feelings sought 
In that intenseness an escape from thought. : 
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed 
On that the feebler elements hath raised ; 
The rapture of his heart had look'd on high, 
And ask'd if greater dwelt beyond the sky: 
Chain'd to excess, the slave of each extreme, 
How woke he from the wildness of that dream ? 
Alas ! he told not — but he did awake 
To curse the wither' d heart that would not break 



Books, for his volume heretofore was Man, 
With eye more curious he appear'd to scan. 
And oft, in sudden mood, for many a day, 
From all communion he would start away. 
And then, his rarely call'd attendants said. 
Through night's long hours would sound hi* 

hurried tread 
O'er the dark gallery, where his fathers frown d 
In rude but antique portraiture around: 
They heard, but whisper'd — "that must not be 

known — 
The sound of words less earthly than his own. 
Yes, they who chose might smile, but some had 

seen [have been. 

They scarce knew what, but more than should 
Why gazed he so upon the ghastly head 
Which hands profane had gather'd from the 

dead, 
That still beside his open'd volume lay, 
As if to startle all save him away? 
Why slept he not when others were at rest? 
Why heard no music, and received no guest? 
Ail was not well, they deem'd — but wtere the 

wrong? [long; 

Some knew perchance — but 't were a tale too 

E 2 



52 



LARA. 



And such besides were too discreetly wise, 
To more than hint thsir knowledge in surmise; 
But if they would — they could" — around the 

board, 
Thus Lara s vassals prattled of their lord. 



It wf.s the night — and Lara's glassy stream 
The stars are studding, each with imaged beam; 
So calm, the waters scarcely seem to stray, 
And yet they glide like happiness away; 
Reflecting far and fairy-like from high 
The immortal lights that live along the sky: 
Its banks are fringed with many a goodly tree, 
And flowers the fairest that may feast the bee ; 
Such in her chaplet infant Dian wove, 
And Innocence would offer to her love. 
These deck the shore; the waves their channel 

make 
In windings bright and mazy like the snake. 
All was so still, so soft in earth and air. 
You scarce would start to meet a spirit there; 
Secure that nought of evil could delight 
To walk in such a scene, on such a night ! 
It was a moment only for the good : 
So Lara deem'd, nor longer there he stood, 
But turn'd in silence to his castle-gate; 
Such scene his soul no more could contemplate : 
Such scene reminded him of other days, 
Of skies more cloudless, moons of purer blaze, 
Of nights more soft and frequent, hearts that 

now — 
No — no — the storm may beat upon his brow, 
Unfelt — unsparing — but a night like this, 
A night of aeiuty, mock'd such breast as his. 



He turn'd within his solitary hall, 
And his high shadow shot along the wall : 
There were the painted forms of other times, 
"T was all they left of virtues or of crimes, 
ave vague tradition; and the gloomy vaults 
'hat hid their dust, their foibles, and their faults; 
nd half a column of the pompous page, 
That speeds the specious tale from age to age ; 
Where history's pen its praise or blame supplies, 
And lies like truth, and still most truly lies. 
He wandering mused, and as the moonbeam 

shone 
Through the dim lattice o'er the floor of stone, 
And the high fretted roof, and saints, that there 
O'er Gothic windows knelt in pictured prayer, 
Reflected in fantastic figures grew, 
Like life, but not like mortal life, to view ; 
bristling locks of sabie, brow of gloom, 
the wide waving of his snaken plume, 



Glanced like a spectre's attributes, and gare 
His aspect all that terror gives the gra?e. 



'T was midnight — all was slumber ; tlie Ion* 

light 
Dimm'd in the lamp, as loth to break the nigh! 
Hark ! there be murmurs heard in Lara's hall-— 
A sound — a voice — a shriek — a fearful call! 
A long, loud shriek — and silence — did they he» 
That frantic echo burst the sleeping ear? 
They heard and rose, and, tremulously brave, 
Rush where the sound invoked their aid to save; 
They come with half-lit tapers in their hands. 
And snatch'd in startled haste unbelted brands. 



Cold as the marble where his length was laid, 
Pale as the beam that o'er his features play'd, 
"Was Lara stretch d; his half-drawn sabre near, 
Dropp'd it should seem in more than nature'* 

fear; 
Yet ne was firm, or had been finn till now, 
And still defiance knit his gather' d brow; 
Though mix'd with terror, senseless as he lay 
There lived upon his lip the wish to slay; 
Some half-form' d threat in utterance there had 

died, 
Some imprecation of despairing pride; 
His eye was almost seal'd, but not forsook 
Even in its trance the gladiator's look. 
That oft awake his aspect could disclose, 
And now was fix'd in horrible repose. 
They raise him — bear him ; — hush! he breather 

he speaks, 
The swarthy blush recolours in his cheeks, 
His lip resumes its red, his eye, though dim, 
Rolls wide and wild, each slowly quivering limb 
Recalls its function, but his words are strung 
In terms that seem not of his native tongue; 
Distinct but strange, enough they understand 
To deem them accents of another land ; 
And such they were, and meant to meet an eai 
That hears him not — alas! that cannot hear. 



His page approach'd, and he alone appear'd 
To know the import of the words they heard; 
And, by the changes of his cheek and brow. 
They were not such as Lara should avow, 
Nor he interpret, — yet with less surprise 
Than those around their chieftain's state he eye*, 
But Lara's prostrate form he bent beside, 
And in that tongue which seem'd his owi 
replied 



LARA. 



53 



And Lara heed» those tonei that gently aeem 
To soothe away the honors of his dream — 
If dream it were, that thus could overthrow 
A. breast that needed not ideal woe. 



xv. 

Whaie er nis frenzy dream 'd or eye beheld, 
ff yet rernember'd ne'er to be reveal'd. 
Rests at his heart : the custom 'd morning came, 
And breathed new vigour in his shaken frame ; 
Vnd solace sought he none from priest nor leech, 
•And soon the same in movement and in speech 
As heretofore he fill'd the passing hours, — 
Norlesshesmiles.normore his forehead lowers, 
Than these were wont ; and if the coming night 
Appear'd less welcome now to Lara's sight, 
He«*o his marvelling vassals show'd it not, 
Whose shuddering proved their fear was less 

forgot. 
In trembling pairs (alone they dared not) crawl, 
The astonish'd slaves, and shun the fated hall ; 
The waving banner, and the clapping door, 
The rustling tapestry, and the echoing floor; 
The long dim shadows of surrounding trees, 
The flapping bat, the night song of the breeze ; 
Aught they behold or hear their thought appals, 
As evening saddens o'er the dark grey wails. 



7ain thought ! that hour of ne'er unraveU'd 

gloom 
Came not again, or Lara could assume 
A seeming of forgetfulness, that made 
tlis vassals more amazed nor less afraid — 
Bad memory vanish'd then with sense restored? 
Since word, nor look, nor gesture of their lord 
Betray'd a feeling that recall' d to these 
That fever'd monism of his mind's disease. 
Was it a dream? was his the voice that spoke 
rhose* strange wild accents ; his the cry that 

broke [heart 

Their slumber? his the oppress'd, o'erlabour'd 
That ceased to beat, the look that made them 

start? 
Could he who thus had suffer' d so forget, 
When such as saw that suffering shudder yet? 
Or did that silence prove his memory fix'd 
Too deep for words, indelible, unmix' d 
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws 
The heart to show the effect, but not the cause? 
Not so in him; his breast had buried both, 
Nor common gazers could discern the growth 
Of thoughts that mortal lips must leave half told ; 
Thty choke the feeble words that would unfold. 



In him inexplicably mix h appear'd 

Much to be loved and hated, sought an^ 

fear'd ; 
Opinion varying o'er his hidden lot, 
In praise or railing ne'er his name forgot: 
His silence form'd a theme for others' prate-* 
They guess'd — they gazed — they fain would 

know his fate. 
What had he been ? what was he, thus un 

known, [known? 

Who walk'd their world, his lineage only 
A hater of his kind? yet some would say, 
With them he could seem gay amidst the gay , 
But own'd that smile, if oft observed and near, 
Waned in its mirth, and wither'd to a sneer ; 
That smile might reach his lip, but pass'd no> 

by, 
None e'er could trace its laughter to his eye 
Yet there was softness too in his regard, 
At times, a heart as not by nature hard 
But once perceived, his spirit seem'd to chide 
Such weakness, as unworthy of its pride, * 
And steel'd itself as scorning to redeem 
One doubt from others' half withheld esteem ; 
In self-inflicted penance of a breast 
Which tenderness might once have wrung from 

rest ; 
In vigilance of grief that would compel 
The soul to hate for having loved too well. 



There was in him a vital scorn of all : 
As if the worst had fall'n which could befall, 
He stood a stranger in this breathing world, 
An erring spirit from another hui I'd, 
A thing of dark imaginings, that shaped 
By choice the perils he by chance escaped ; 
But 'scaped in vain, for in their memory yet 
His mind would half exult and half regret ; 
With more capacity for love than earth 
Bestows on most of mortal mould and birth. 
His early dreams of good outstripp'd the truth, 
And troubled manhood follow'd baffled youth ; 
With thought of years in phantom chase mis- 
spent, 
And wasted powers for better purpose lent ; 
And fiery passions that had pour'd their wrath 
In hurried desolation o'er his path, 
And left the better feelings all at strife 
la wild reflection o'er his stormy lite ; 
But haughty still, and loth himself to blame, 
He call'd on Nature's self to share the shame 
And charged all faults upon the fleshy form 
She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worn-. 



54 



LARA. 



Iili ae it fast confounded good and ill, 

And half mistook for fate the acts of will: 
Too high for common selfishness, he could 
At times resign his own for others' good, 
Hut not in pity, not because he ought, 
But iri some strange perversity of thought, 
That sway'd him onward with a secret pride 
To do what few or none would do beside ; 
And this same impulse would, in tempting time, 
Mislead his spirit equally to crime; 
So much he soar'd beyond, or sunk beneath, 
The men with whom he felt condemn'd to 

breathe ; 
And long'd by good or ill to separate 
Himself from all who shared his mortal state; 
His mind abhoiring this had fix'd her throne 
Far from the world, in regions of her own : 
Thus coldly passing all that pass'd below, 
His blood in temperate seeming now would flow: 
Ah! happier if it ne'er with guilt had glow'd, 
But ever in that icy smoothness flovv'd! 
T is true, with other men their path he walk'd, 
And like the rest in seeming did and talk'd, 
Nor outraged Reason's rules by flaw nor start, 
His madness was not of the head, but heart; 
And rarely wander'd in his speech, or drew 
His thoughts so forth as to offend the view. 



•Tith all that chilling mystery of mien, 
And seeming gladness to remain unseen, 
He had (if 'twere not nature's boon) an art 
If fixing memory on another's heart: 
[t was notlove perchance — nor hate — nor aught 
That words can image to express the thought ; 
But they who saw him did not see in vain, 
And once beheld, would ask of him again : 
And those to whom he spake remember'd well, 
And on the words, however light, would dwell: 
None knew, nor how, nor why, but he entwined 
Himself pifforce around the hearer's mind ; 
rhero he was stamp'd, in liking, or in hate, 
Cf greeted once ; however brief the date 
That friendship, pity, or aversion knew, 
Still there within the inmost thought he grew. 
Vou could not penetrate his soul, but found, 
Despite your wonder, to your own he wound; 
His presence haunted still ; and from the breast 
He forced an all unwilling interest : 
Vain was the struggle in that mental net, 
His spirit seem'd to dare you to forget ! 



Appear — a highborn and a welcome guest 
To Otho's hall came Lara with the rest. 
The long carousal shakes the illumined halL 
Well speeds alike the banquet and the ball ; 
And the gay dance of bounding Beauty's train 
Links grace and harmony in happiest chain: 
Blest are the early hearts and gentle hands 
That mingle there in well according bands ; 
It is a sight the careful brow might smooth, 
And make Age smile, and dream itself to youth, 
And Youth forget such hour was past on earth 
So springs the exulting bosom to that mirth ! 

XXI. 

And Lara gazed on these, sedately glad, 
His brow belied him if his soul was sad ; 
And his glance follow'd fast each fluttering fair 
Whose steps of lightness woke no echo there : 
He lean'd against the lofty pillar nigh, 
With folded arms and long attentive eye, 
Nor mark'd a glance so sternly fix'd on b\s — 
111 brook'd high Lara scrutiny like this : 
At length he caught it — 'tis a face unknown 
But seems as searching his, and his alone , 
Prying and dark, a stranger's by his mien, 
WJ-u still till now had gazed on him unseen: 
At length encountering meets the mutual gaze 
Of keen inquiry, and of mute amaze ; 
On Lara's glance emotion gathering grew, 
As if distrusting that the stranger threw; 
Along the stranger's aspect, fix'd and stern, 
Flash'd more than thence the vulgar eye could 
learn. 

XXII. 

*' 'T is ho ! " the stranger cried, and those thai 

heard 
Re-echoed fast and far the whisper'd word. 
" 'T is he ! " — " 'T'is who? " they question fat 

and near, 
Till louder accents rung on Lara's ear ; 
So widely spread, few bosoms well could brooh 
The general marvel, or that single look : 
But Lara stirr'd not, changed not, the surprise 
That sprung at first to his arrested eyes 
Seem'd now subsided, neither sunk nor raised 
Glanced his eye round, though still the stranger 

gazed ; 
And drawing nigh,exclaim'd,with haughty sneer, 
" 'T is he ! — how came he thence ? — what dotk 

he here ? " 



There is a festival, where knights and dames, 
i»id augrht that wealth or lofty lineage claima, 



It were too much for Lara to pass by 
Such questions, so repeated fierce and V 



1.ARA. 



55 



W<v\ --hjk collected, but with accent cold, 
ftlorc mildly firm than petulantly bold, 
He tcrn'd, and met the inquisitorial tone — 
1 Myname is Lara! — when thine own is known, 
Doubt not my fitting answer to requite 
The unlook'd for courtesy of such a knight. 
T is Lara ! — further wouldst thou mark or ask? 
1 shun no question, and I wear no mask." 

" Thou shunn'st no question ! Ponder — is there 

none [shun? 

Thy heart must answer, though thine ear would 
And deem' st thou me unknown too? Gaze 

again! 
At least thy memory was not given in vain. 
Oh ! never canst thou cancel half her debt, 
Eternity forbids thee to forget." 
With slow and searching glance upon his face 
Grew Lara's eyes, but nothing there could trace 
The* 'mew, or chose to know — with dubious 

look 
He ueign'd no answer, but his head he shook, 
And half contemptuous turn'd to pass away ; 
But the stern stranger motion'd him to stay. 
*'A word! — I charge thee stay, and answer here 
To one, who, wert thou noble, were thy peer 
But as thou wast and art — nay, frown not, lord, 
If false, 't is easy to disprove the word — 
But as thou wast and art, on thee looks down, 
Distrusts thy smiles,butshakes not at thy frown. 

Art thou not he? whose deeds " 

" Whate'er I be, 
Words wild as these, accusers like to thee, 
I list no further ; those with whom they weigh 
May bear ihe rest, nor venture to gainsay 
The wondrous tale no doubt thy tongue can 

tell, 
Which thus begins so courteously and well. 
Cet Otho cherish here his polish'd guest, 
To him my thanks and thoughts shall be ex- 

press'd." [posed — 

And here their wondering host hath inter- 
" Whate'er there be between you undisclosed, 
This is no time nor fitting place to mar 
The mirthful meeting with a wordy war. 
If thou, Sir Ezzelin, hast aught to show 
Which it befits Count Lara's ear to know, 
To-morrow, here, or elsewhere, as may best 
Beseem your muvial judgment, speak the rest; 
. pledge myself ft r thee, as not unknown, 
Though, like CoiuU Lara, now retura'd alone 
from other lands, almost a stranger grown ; 
And if from Lara's blood and gentle birth 
» augur right of courage and of worth, 
tie will not that untainted line belie, 
'lor aught that knighthood may aecoH. deny." 



"To-morrow be it,' Ezzelin replied, 
" And here our several worth and truth be U ied 
I gage my life, my falchion to attest 
My words, so may I mingle with the blest ! " 
What answers Lara? to its centre shrunk 
His soul, in deep abstraction sudden sunk ; 
The words of many, and the eyes of all 
That there were gather'd, seem'd on him to fall 
But his wefe silent, his appear'd to stray- 
In far forgetfulness away — *iway — 
Alas ! that heedlessness of all around 
Bespoke remembrance only too profound. 

XXIV. 

" To-morrow ! — ay, to-morrow !" further word 
Than those repeated none from Lara heard ; 
Upon his brow no outward passion spoke ; 
From his large eye no flashing anger broke ; 
Yet there was something fix'd in that low tone 
Which show'd resolve, determined, though un- 
known. 
He seized his cloak — his head he slightly 

bow'd, 
And passing Ezzelin, he left the crowd ; 
And, as he pass'd him, smiling met the frown. 
With which that chieftain's brow would bear 

him down : 
It was nor smile of mirth, nor struggling pri,i.» 
That curbs to scorn the wrath it cannot hide; 
But that of one in his own heart secure 
Of all that he would do or could endure. 
Could this mean peace ? the calmness of the 

good? 
Or guilt grown old in desperate hardihood T 
Alas ! too like in confidence are each, 
For man to trust to mortal look or speech; 
From deeds, and deeds alone, may he discern 
Truths which it wrings the unpractised heart 
to learn. 



And Lara call d his page, and went his way— ■ 

Well could that stripling word or sign obey : 
His only follower from those climes afar. 
Where the soul glows beneath a brighter star; 
For Lara left the shore from whence he sprung, 
In duty patient, and sedate though young ; 
Silent as him he served, his faith appears 
Above his station, and beyond his years. 
Though not unknown the tongue of Lara's land, 
In such from him he rarely heard command: 
But fleit his step, and clear his tones would 
come, [home : 

When Lara's lip breathed forth the words o.' 
Those accents, as his native mountains dear, 
Awake their abwnt echoes in his ear, 



5G 



LARA. 



Friends', kindreds', parents, wonted voice 

recall, 
Now lost, abjured, for one — his friend, his all : 
For him earth now disclosed no other guide; 
What marvel then he rarely left his side ? 



Light was his form, and darkly delicate 
That brow whereon his native sun had sate, 
But had not marr'd,though in his beams he grew, 
The cheek where oft the unbidden blush shone 

through ; [would show 

Yet not such blush as mounts when health 
All the heart's hue in that delighted glow ; 
But 't was a hectic tint of secret care 
That for a burning moment fever' d there ; 
And the wild sparkle of his eye seem'd caught 
From high, and lighten'd with electric thought, 
Though its black orb those long low lashes' 

fringe 
Had temper'd with a melancholy tinge ; 
Yet less of sorrow than of pride was there, 
Or, if *t were grief, a grief that none shoidd 

share : [age, 

And pleased not him the sports that please his 
The tricks of youth, the frolics of the page ; 
For hours on Lara he would fix his glance, 
As all-forgotten in that watchful trance ; 
And from his chief withdrawn, he wander'd 

lone, 
Brief were his answers, and his questi ons none ; 
His walk the wood, his sport some foreign book ; 
Hisresting-placethebank that curbs the brook: 
He seem'd, like him he served, to live apart ! 
From all that lures the eye, and fills the heart ; 
To know no brotherhood, and take Irom earth 
No gift beyond that bitter boon — our birth. 



If aught he loved, 't was Lara ; but was shown 

His faith in reverence and in deeds alone ; 
In mute attention ; and his care, which guess'd 
Each wish, fulfill'd it ere the tongue express'd. 
Still there was haughtiness in all he did, 
A spirit deep that brook'd not to be chid ; 
His zeal, though more than that of servile hands, 
In act alone obeys, his air commands ; 
As if 't was Lara's less than his desire 
That thus he se^-ed, but surely not for hire. 
Slight were the tasks enjoin'd him by his lord, 
T? hold the stirrup, or *o bear the sword ; 
To tune his lute, or, if he ■» ill'd it more, 
On tomes of other times an<\ tongues to pore ; 
Bui ne'er to mingle with the menial train, 
Tn whom he show VI nor deference nor disdain. 



But that well-worn reserve which proved fa 

knew 
No sympathy with that familiar crew : 
His soul, whate'er his station or his stem; 
Could bow to Lara, not descend to there 
Of higher birth he seem'd, and better days, 
Nor mark of vulgar toil that hand betrays, 
So femininely white it might bespeak 
Another sex. when mateh'd with that smooti 

cheek, 
But lor his garb, and something in his gaze, 
More wild and high than woman's eye betrays ; 
A latent fierceness that far more became 
His fiery climate than his tender frame: 
True, in his words it broke not Irom his breast, 
But from his aspect might be more than guess'd. 
Kaled his name, though rumoui said he bore 
Another ere he lelt his mountain-shore ; 
For sometimes he would hear, however nigh, 
That name repeated loud without reply, 
As unfamiliar, or, if roused again, 
Start to the sound, as but remember'd then ; 
Unless 't was Lara's wonted voice that spake, 
For then, ear, eyes, and heart would all awake. 



He had look'd down upon the festive hall, 
And mark'd that sudden strife so mark 'd of all , 
And when the crowd around and near him told 
Their wonder at the calmness of the bold, 
Their marvel how the high-born Lara bore 
Such insult from a stranger, doubly sore, 
The colour of young Kaled went and came, 
The lip of ashes, and the cheek of llame ; 
And o'er his brow the dampening heart-drops 

threw 
The sickening iciness of that cold dew, 
That rises as the busy bosom sinks 
"With heavy thoughts from which reflection 

shrinks. [and dare, 

Yes — there be things which we must dream 
And execute ere thought be half aware : 
Whate'er might Kalfd's be, it was enow 
To seal his lip, but agonise his brow. 
He gazed on Ezzelin till Lara cast 
That sidelong smile upon the knight he past". 
When Kaled saw that smile his visage fell, 
As if on something recognised right well; 
His memory read in such a meaning more 
Than Lara's aspect unto others wore : 
Forward he sprung — a moment, both weregoue 
And all withhAhat hall seem'd left a one ; 
Each had so lix'd his eye on Lara's mien. 
All had so miv'd then feelings with that! 



LARA. 



57 



That when his long dark shadow through the 

porch 
No more relieves the glare of yon high torch, 
Each pulse beats quicker, and all bosoms seem 
To bound as doubting from too black a dream, 
$uch as we know is false, yet dread in sooth, 
Because the worst is ever nearest truth. 
And they are gone — but Ezzelin is there, 
With thoughtful visage and imperious air; 
Hut long remain'd not ; ere an hour expired 
lie "waved his hand to Otho, and retired. 

XXIX. 

The crowd are gone, the revellers at rest ; 
The courteous host, and all-approving guest, 
Again to that accustom'd couch must creep 
Where joy subsides, and sorrow sighs to sleep, 
And man. o'erlabour'd with his being's strife, 
Shrinks to that sweet forge tfulness of life : 
There lies love's feverish Lope, and cunning's 

guile, 
Hate's working brain, and lull'd ambition's wile; 
O'er each vain eye oblivion's pinions wave, 
And quench'd existence crouches in a grave. 
What bettername may slumber's bed become? 
Night's sepulchre, the universal home, 
W T hcre weakness, strength, vice, virtue, sunk 

supine, 
Alike in naked helplessness recline; 
Glad for awhile to heave unconscious breath, 
Yet wake to wrestle with the dread of death, 
And shun, though day but dawn on ills in- 
creased, [least. 
That sleep, the loveliest, since it dreams the 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Night wanes — the vapours round the moun- 
tains curl'd 
Mek into mom, and Light awakes the world. 
Man has another day to swell the past, 
And lead him near to little, but his last ; 
But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth, 
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth; 
Flowers in the valley, splendour in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream , 
Immortal man! behola her glories shine, 
And cry, exultin;; inly. " They are thine!" 



Gaze on, while yet thj gladden'd eye may see, 
A morrow comes when v'aey are not for thee • 
And grieve what may above thy senseless bier, 
Nor earth nor sky wdl yield a single tear; 
Nor cloud shall gather more, nor leaf shall fall, 
Nor gale breathe forth onesisrh for thee, for all , 
But creeping things shall revel in their spoil, 
And fit thy clay to fertilise the soil. 



Tis morn — 'tis noon — assembled in the bal«, 
The gather'd chieftains come to Otho's call; 
'T is now the promised hour, that must yro 

claim 
The life or death of Lara's future fame; 
When Ezzelin his charge may here unfold, 
And whatsoe'er the tale, it must be told. 
His faith was pledged, and Laras prumisi 

given, 
To meet it in the eye of man and heaven. 
Why comes he not? Such truths to be divulged 
Methinks the accuser's rest is long indulged. 



The hour is past, and Lara too is there, 
With self-confiding, coldly patient air ; 
Why comes not Ezzelin ? The hour is past. 
And murmurs rise, and Otho's brow'so'ercast 
" I know my friend ! his faith I cannot fear, 
If yet he be on earth, expect him here ; 
The roof that held him in the valley stands 
Between my own and noble Lara's lands; 
My halls from such a guest had honour gain'd 
Nor had Sir Ezzelin his host disdain'd, 
But that some previous proof forbade his staj* 
And urged him to prepare against to-day; 
The word I pledged for his I pledge again, 
Or will myself redeem his knighthood's stain." 

He ceased — and Lara answer'd, " I am here 
To lend at thy oemand a listening ear 
To tales of evil from a stranger's tongue, 
Whose words already might my heart haii 

wrung, 
But that I deorn'd him scarcely less than mad 
Or, at the wo st, a foe ignobly bad. 
I know him t\ ot — but me it seems he knew 
In lands where — but I must not trifle too : 
Produce this babbler — or redeem the pledge; 
Here in thy hold, and with thy falchion's edge. 

Proud Otho on the instant, reddening, threw 
His glove on earth, and forth his sabre flev 
" The hst alternative befits me best, 
And thus I answer for mine absent gne»* 



58 



LARA. 



With cheek unchanging from its sallow gloom, 
However near his own or other's tomb ; 
With hand, whose almost careless coolness 

spoke 
Its grasp well-used to deal the sabre-stroke ; 
With eye, though calm, determined not to spare, 
Did Lara too his willing weapon bare. 
In vain the circling chieftains round them 

closed, 
For Otho's frenzy would not be opposed; 
And from his lip those words of insult fell — 
His sword is good who can maintain them well. 



Short was the conflict ; furious, blindly rash, 
Vain Otho gave his bosom to the gash: 
He bled, and fell; but not with deadly wound, 
Stretch'd by a dextrous sleight along the ground. 
" Demand* thy life!" He answer' d not: and 

then 
From that red floor he ne'er had risen again, 
For Lara's brow upon the moment grew 
Almost to Mackness in its demon hue ; 
And Mercer shook his angry falchion now 
Than when his foe's was levell'd at his brow ; 
Then all was stern collectedness and art, 
Now rose the unleaven'd hatred of his heart; 
So little sparing to the foe he fell'd, 
That when the approaching crowd his arm 

withheld, 
He almost tum'd the thirsty point on those, 
Who thus for mercy dared to in*'"*pose ; 
But to a moment's thought that purpose bent; 
Yet look'd he on him still with eye intent, 
As if he loathed the inerfectual strife 
That left a foe, howe'er o'erthrown, with life; 
As if to search how i'ar the wound he gave 
Had sent its victim onward to his grave. 



They raised the bleeding Otho, and the Leech 
Forbade all present question, sign, and speech; 
The others met within a neighbouring hall, 
And he, incensed, and heedless of them all. 
The cause and conqueror in this sudden fray, 
In haughty silence slowly strode away ; 
Heback'd hissteed,his homeward path he took, 
Nor cast on Otho's towers a single look. 



But where was he? that meteor of a night, 
Who menaced but to disappear with light. 
Where was this Ezzelin? who came and went 
To leave no other trace of his intent. 
He left the dome of Otho long ere mom, 
In darkness, yet so well the Dath was worn 



He could not miss it: near his dwelling layj 
But there he was not, and with coming day 
Came fast inquiry, which unfolded nought 
Except the absence of the chief it sought. 
A chamber tenantless, a steed at rest, 
His host alarm'd, his murmuring squires dis 

tress'd : 
Their search extends along, around the path 
In dread to meet the marks of prowlers' wrath 
But none are there, and not a brake hath bom 
Nor gout of blood, nor shred of mantle torn; 
Nor fall nor struggle hath defaced the grass, 
Which still retains a mark where murder was; 
Nor dabbling fingers left to tell the tale, 
The bitter print of each convulsive nail, 
When agonised hands that cease to guard, 
Wound in that pang the smoothness of the 

sward. 
Some such had been, if here a ! : fe wm reft, 
But these were not; and doubting hope ii 

left ; 
And strange suspicion, whispering Lara's naruej 
Now daily mutters o'er his blacken'd fame; 
Then sudden silent when his form appear' d, 
Awaits the absence of the thing it lear'd 
Again its wonted wondering to renew, 
And dye conjecture with a darker hue. 



Days roll along, and Otho's wounds arehcal'd, 
But not his pride ; and hate nomoreconceal'd: 
He was a man of power, and Lara's foe, 
The friend of all who sought to work him woe, 
And from his country's justice now demands 
Account of Ezzelin at Lara's hands. 
Who else than Lara could have cause to fear 
His presence? who had made him disappear, 
If not the man on whom his menaced charge 
Had s-iie too deeply were he left at largs? 
The general rumour ignorantly loud, 
The mystery dearest to the curious crowc : 
The seeming friendlessness of him who strove 
To win no conudence, and wake no love; 
The sweeping fierceness which his soul betray' d. 
The skill with which he wielded his keen blade 
Where had his arm unwarlike caught that art? 
Wl ere had thatfiercenessgrowntipon his heartf 
Foy it was not the blind capricious rage 
A word can kindle and a *ord assuage; 
But the deep working of a soul unmix' d 
With aught of pity where its wraih bad fix'd; 
Such as long power and overgorged success 
Concentrates into all that's merciless. 
These, link'd with that desire which ever swayi 
Mankind, the rather to condemn than praise. 



LARA. 



59 



Gainst Lara gathering raised at length a storm, 
Siic-h as himself might tear, and foes would form, 
Aud he must answer for the absent head 
Of one that haunts him still, alive or dead 



Within ".hat land was many a malcontent, 
Who cursed the tyranny to which he»bent ; 
Ru»l soil full many a wringing despot saw, 
Who work'd his wantonness in form of law ; 
Ion,? war without and frequent brail within 
Had riiade a path for blood and giant sin, 
That iraited but a signal to begin 
New havoc, such as civil discord blends, 
\Vhi< a knows no neuter ,ownsbut foes or friends; 
Fix'd in his feudal fortress each was lord, 
In word and deed obey'd, in soul abhorr'd. 
Thus Lara had inherited his lands, 
And with them pining hearts and sluggish 

hands ; 
But that long absence from his native clime 
Had left him stainless of oppression's crime, 
A.nd now, diverted by his milder sway, 
Ml dread by slow degrees had worn away. 
The menials felt their usual awe alone, 
But more for him than them that fear was grown; 
They deem'd him now unhappy, though at first 
Their evil judgment augur' d of the worst, 
And each long restless night, and silent mood, 
Was traced to sickness, fed by solitude : 
And though his lonely habits threw of late 
Gloom o'er his chamber, cheerful was his gate; 
For thence the wretched ne'er unsoothed with- 
drew, 
For them, at least, his soul compassion knew. 
Cold to the great, contemptuous to the high, 
The humble pass'd not his unheeding eye ; 
Much he would speak not, but beneath his roof 
They found asylum oft, and ne'er reproof. 
And they who wateh'd might mark that, day 

by day, 
ft ime new retainers gather'd to his sway; 
Butmosn of late, since Ezzclin was lost, 
He play' J the courteous lord and bounteous host: 
Perchance his strife with Otho made him dread 
Some snare prepared for his obnoxious head; 
Whate'er his view, his favour more obtains 
With these, the people, than his fellow thanes. 
If this were policy, so far 't was sound, 
Tie million judged but of him as they found; 
F/om him by sterner chiefs to exile driven 
They but required a shelter, and 'twas given 
By him no peasant mourn' d his rifled cot, 
And scarce the Serf could murmur o'er his lot; 
With him old avarice found its hoard secure, 
With hin contempt forbore to mock the poor ; 



Youth, present cheer and promise< I recomp°nc« 
Detain d, till all too late to part from thence : 
To hate he ofFcr'd, with the coming change, 
The deep reversion of dclay'd revenge; 
To love, long baffled by the unequal match, 
The well-won charms success was sure to snatch 
All now was ripe, he waits but to proclaim 
That slavery nothing which was still a name. 
The moment came, the hour when Otho thought 
Secure at last the vengeance which he sought 
His summons found the destined criminal 
Begirt by thousands in his swarming hall, 
Fresh from their feudal fetters newly riven, 
Defying earth, and confident of heaven. 
That morning he had freed the soil-bound slavci 
Who dig no land for tyrants but their graves. 
Such is their cry — some watchword for the fight 
Must vindicate the wrong, and warp the right: 
Religion — freedom — vengeance — what vou 

will, 
A word 's enough to raise mankind to kill; 
Some factious phrase by cunning caught and 

spread, [be fed! 

That guilt may reign, and wolves and worms 



Throughout that clime the feudal chiefs had 

gaind 
Such sway, their infant monarch hardly reign'd; 
Now was the hour for faction's rebel growth, 
The Serfs contemn'd the one, and hated both 
They waited but a leader, and they found 
One to their cause inseparably bound ; 
By circumstance compell'd to plunge again, 
In self-defence, amidst the strife of men. 
Cut off by some mysterious fate from those 
"Whom birth and nature meant not for his foes, 
Had Lara from that night, to him accurst. 
Prepared to meet, but not alone, the worst: 
Some reason urged, whate'er it was, to shun 
Inquiry into deeds at distance done ; 
By mingling with his own the cause of all, 
E'en if he fail'd, he still delay 'd his fail 
The sullen calm that long his bosom kept, 
The storm that once had spent itself and slept, 
Roused by events that seem'd foiedoom'd to 

urge 
His gloomy fortunes to their utmost verge, 
Burst forth, and made him all he oncehad been 
And is again; he only changed the scene. 
Light care had he for life, and less for fame, 
But not less fitted for the desperate game. 
He deem'd himself mark'd out for others' hate 
And mock'd at ruin so they shared his fa.e. 
"What cared he for the freedom of the crowd 
He raised the humble but to bend the pvou.1 



60 



LARA. 



He had hoped quiet in his sullen lair, 
But man and destiny beset him there: 
Inured to hunters, he was found at bay; 
And they must kill, they cannot snare the prey. 
Stern, unambitious, silent, he had been 
Henceforth a calm spectator of life's scene; 
But dragg'd again upon the arena, stood 
A leader not unequal *o the feud; [spoke, 

In voice — mien — gesture — savage nature 
And from his eye the gladiator broke. 



What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, 
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? 
The varying fortune of each separate field, 
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield? 
The smoking ruin, and the crumbled wall? 
In this the struggle was the same with all ; 
Save that distemper'd passions lent their force 
[n bitterness that banish'd all remorse. 
None sued, for Mercy knew her cry was vain, 
The captive died upon the battle-slain : 
In either cause, one rage alone possess'd 
The empire of the alternate victor's breast; 
And they that smote for freedom or for sway, 
Deem'd few were slain, while more remain'd 

to slay. 
It was too late to check the wasting brand, 
And Desolation rean'd rb* famish'd land ; 
The torch was lighted. *»<4 die flame was spread, 
And Carnage smiled upon ner daily dead. 



But more preferr'd the fury (if the strife, 
And present death, to hourly suffering life 
And famine wrings, and fever sweeps awaj 
His numbers melting fast from their array; 
Intemperate triumph i'ades to discontent, 
And Lara's soul alone seems still unbent: 
But few remain to aid his voice and hana, 
And thousands dwindled to a scanty bana: 
Desperate, though few, the last and best remain 
To mourn the discipline they late disdain'd. 
One hope survives, the frontier is not far, 
And thence they may escape from native war 
And bear within them to the neighbouring statt 
An exile's sorrows, or an outlaw's hate - . 
Hard is the task their father-land to quit, 
But harder still to perish or submit. 



It is resolved — they march — consenting Nigh* 
Guides with ner star their dim and torchlesi 

flight: 
Aheady they perceive its tranquil beam 
Sleep on the surface of the barrier stream ; 
Already they descry — Is yon the bank ? 
Away! 'tis lined with many a hostile rank. 
Return or fly! — What glitters in the rear? 
T is Otho's banner — the pursuer s spear ! 
Are those the shepherds' fires upon the height 
Alas ! they blaze too widely for the flight: 
Cut off from hope, and compass'd in the toil, 
Less blood perchance hath bought a richer spot/ 



Pi esh with the nerve the naw-born impulse 

strung, 
The first success to Lara's numbers clung : 
But that vain victory hath ruin'd all ; 
They form no longer to their leader's call : 

n blind confusion on the foe they press, 
nd think to snatch is to secure success. 
Ihe lust of booty, and the thirst of hate, 
Lure on the broken brigands to their fate: 
In vain he doth whate'er a chief way do, 
To check the headlong fury ->' >+ hat crew; 
In vain their stubborn ardour he would tame, 
The hand that kindles cannot quench the flame ; 
The wary foe alone hath turn'd their mood, 
And shown their rashness to that erring brood : 
The feign'd retreat, the nightly ambuscade, 
The daily harass, and the fight delay'd, 
The long privation of the hoped supply, 
The tentless rest beneath the humid sky, 
The stubborn wall that mocks the leaguer's art, 
And palls the patience of his baffled heart, 
Of these they had not deem'd : the battle-da'" 

Fhev coiild encounter as a eteran mav; 



A moment's pause — 'tis but to breathe their 

band, 
Or shall they onward press, or here withstand? 
It matters little — if they charge the foes 
Who by theirborder-stream their march oppose. 
Some few, perchance, may break and pass th« 

line, 
However link'd to baffle such design. 
" The charge be ours ! to wait for their assaul 
Were fate well worthy of a coward's halt." 
Forth flies each sabre, rein'd is every sto], 
And the next word shall scarce outstrip the deed 
Ii. the next tone of Lara's gathering breath 
How many shall but hear the voice of d^atli ' 



His blade is bared, — in »iim there is an air 
As deep, but far too tranquil for despair; 
A something of indifference more than then 
Becomes the bravest, if they feel for men. 
He turn'd his rye on Kaled, ever near. 
\nu still too faithful to betray one fear: 



LARA. 



61 



Ptrehance 'twas but the moon's dim twilight 

threw 
Along his aspect an unwonted line 
Df mournful paleness, whose deep tint express'd 
The truth, and not the terror of Ms breast. 
This Lara mark'd, and laid his hand on his: 
It trembled not in such an hour as this; 
His lip was silent, scarcely beat his heart, 
His eye alone proclaim'd, "We will not part! 
I hv band may perish, or thy friends may flee, 
Farewell to life, but not adieu to thee 1" 

The word hath pass'd bis lips, and onward 
driven, [riven ; 

Pours the link'd band through ranks asunder 
Well has each steed obey'd the armed heel, 
And flash the scimitars, and rings the steel ; 
Outnumber 'd, not outbraved, they still oppose 
Despair to daring, and a front to Joes ; 
And blood is mingled with the dashing stream, 
Which runs all redly till the morning beam. 

xv. 

Commanding, aiding, animating all, 
Where foe appear'd to press, or friend to fall, 
CheersLara's voice.and waves or strikes hissteel, 
Inspiring hope himself had ceased to feel. 
None fled, for well they knew that flight were 

vain ; 
But those that waver turn to smite again, 
While yet they find the firmest of the foe 
Recoil before their leader's look and blow : 
Now girt with numbers, now almost alone, 
He foils their ranks, or re-unites his own ; 
Himself he spared not — once they seem'd to 

fly- 
Now was the time, he waved his hand on high, 
&nd shook — Why sudden droops that plumed 

crest ? 
The shaft is sped — the arrow's in his breast! 
That fatal gesture leit the unguarded side, 
And Death hath stricken down yon arm of pride. 
rhe word of triumph fainted from his tongue : 
That hand, so raised, how droopingly it hung ! 
But yet the sword instinctively retains, 
Though from its fellow shrink the falling reins; 
These Kaled snatches : dizzy with the blow, 
And senseless bending o'er his saddle-bow, 
Perceives not Lara that his anxious page 
Beguiles his charger lrom the combat's rage : 
Meantime his followers charge, and charge 

again ; 
Too rnix'd the slayers now to heed the slain ! 

XVI. 

Day glimmers on the dying and the dead, 
The cloven cuirass and the hehnless head: 



The war-horse maste-less is on the earth, 
And that last gasp hath burst his bloody girth . 
And near, yet quivering with what life re- 

main'd, [rcin'd; 

The heel that urged him and the hand thai 
And some too near that rolling torrent lie, 
Whose waters mock the lip oJ those that die; 
That panting thirst which scorches in the breatu 
Of those that die the soldier's fiery death, 
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave 
One drop — the last — to cool it lor the grave ; 
With feeble and convulsive effort swept, 
Their limbs alongthe crimson'd turf have crept; 
The faint remains of life such struggles waste, 
But yet they reach the stream, and bend to 

taste : 
They feel its freshness, and almost partake — 
Why pause? No further thirst have they t« 

slake — 
It is unquench'd, and yet they feel it not ' 
It was an agony — but now forgot ! 

XVII. 

Beneath a lime, remoter from the scene, 
Where but for him that strife had never been, 
A breathing but devoted warrior lay : 
T was Lara bleeding fast from life away. 
His follower once, and now his only guiile, 
Kneels Kaled watchful o'er his welling side, 
And with his scarf would stanch the tides tha; 

rush, 
With each convulsion, in a blacker gush; 
And then, as his faint breathing waxes low, 
In feebler, not less fatal tricklings flow : 
He scarce can speak, but motions him 'tis vain, 
And merely adds another throb to pain. 
He clasps the hand that pang which woula 

assuage, 
And sadiy smiles his thanks to that dark page, 
Who nothing fears, nor feels, nor heeds, noi 

sees, [knees ; 

Save that damp brow which rests upon his 
Save that pale aspect, where the eye, though dim, 
Held all the light that shone on earth for him. 

XVITt. 

The foe arrives, who long had search' d the field 
Their triumph nought till Lara too shoulc 
yield [vain 

They would remove him, but they see 't were 
And he regards them with a calm disdain, 
That rose to reconcile him with his fate, 
And that escape to death from living hate: 
And Otho conies, and leaping from his steed. 
Looks on the bleeding foe that made him bleed 
And questions of his state he answers not. 
Scarce glances on him as on one forgot, 



62 



LARA. 



And turns to Kaled : — each remaining word 
They understood not, if distinctly heard ; 
His dying tones are in that other tongue, 
To which some strange remembrance wildly 

clung. 
They spake of other scenes, but what — is known 
To Kaled, whom their meaning reach'd alone: 
And he replied, though faintly, to their sound, 
While gazed the rest in dumb amazement 

round : [last 

They seem'd even then — that twain unto — the 
T -) half forget the present in the past ; 
I • share between themselves some separate 

fete, 
Whose darkness none beside should penetrate. 



Their words though faint were many — from 

the tone 
Their import those whoheard couldiudge alone; 
From this, you might have deem'd young 

Kaled's death 
More near than Lara's by his voice and breath, 
So sad, so deep, and hesitating broke 
The accents his scarce-moving pale lips spoke ; 
But Lara's voice, though low, at first was clear 
And calm, till murmuring death gasp'd hoarsely 

near : 
But from his visage little could we guess, 
So unrepentant, dark, and passionless, 
Save that when struggling nearer to his last, 
Upon that page his eye was kindly cast ; 
And once, as Kaled's answering accents ceased, 
Rose Lara's hand, and pointed to the East : 
Whether (as then the breaking sun from high 
Roll'd back the clouds) the morrow caught his 

eye, [scene, 

Or that 't was chance, or some remember'd 
That raised his arm to point where such had 

been, 
Scarce Kaled seem'd to know, but turn VI away, 
As if his heart abhorr'd that coming day. 
And shrunk his glance before that morning 

light, _ ( 

To look on Lara's brow — where all grew night 
Yet sense seem'd left, though better were its 

loss ; 
For when one near display' d the absolving cross, 
And proffer'd to his touch the holy bead, 
Of which his partmg soul might own the need, 
He look'd upon it "ith an eye profane, 
And smiled — Heavts 1 pardon ! if 't were with 

disdain : 
And Kaled, though he spoke not, nor withdrew 
From Lara's face his fix'd despairing view, 



With brow repulsive, and with gesture swift, 
Flung back the hand which held the sacred gift 
As if such but disturb'd the expiring man, 
Nor seem'd to know his life but then began, 
That life of Immortality, secure 
To none, save them whose faith in Christ it 



But gasping heaved the breath that Lara drew 
And dull the film along his dim eye grew , 
His iimbs stretch'd fluttering, and his li^ao 

droop'd o'er 
The weak yet still untiring knee that bore ; 
He press'd the hand he held upon his heart- 
It beats no more, but Kaled will not part 
With the cold grasp, but feels, and feels in vain 
For that faint throb which answers not again. 
" It beats ! " — Away, thou dreamer ! he is 

gone — 
It once was Lara which thou look'^t upon. 



He gazed, as if not yet had pass'd away 
The haughty spirit of that humble claj ; 
And those around have roused him from hid 

trance, 
But cannot tear from thence his fixed glance 
And when, in raising him from where he bora 
Within his arms the form that felt no more, 
He saw the head his breast would still sustain. 
Roll down like earth to earth xipon the plain ; 
He did not dash himself thereby, nor tear 
The glossy tendrils of his raven hair, 
But strove to stand and gaze, but reel'd and 

fell, [well. 

Scarce breathing more than that he loved so 
Than that he loved ! Oh ! never yet beneath 
The breast of man such trusty love may breathe 
That trying moment hath at once reveal'd 
The secret long and yet but half conceal'd ; 
In baring to revive that lifeless breast, 
Its grief seem'd ended, bat the sex confess'd ; 
And life retum'd, and Kaled felt no shame — 
What now to her was Womanhood or Fame? 

XXII. 

And Lara sleeps not where his fathers sleep, 
But where he died Ids grave was dug as deep, 
Nor is his mortal slumber less profound, 
Though priest nor bless'd, nor marble deck'd 

the mound ; 
And he was mourn'd by one whose quiet grief 
Less loud, outlasts a people's for their chief 
Vain was all question ask'd her of the past, 
And vain e'en menace — silent to the last : 



LARA. 



03 



She told nor whence, nor why she left behind 
Her all for one who scem'd but little kind. 
Why did she love him? Curious fool ! — be still — 
Is human love the growth of human will? 
To her he might be gentleness ; the stern 
Hare deeper thoughts than your dull eyes dis- 
cern, 
And when they love, your smilers guess not how 
Heats the strong heart,though less the lips avow. 
They were not common links, that form'd the 

chain 
That bound to Lara Kaled's heart and brain ; 
But that wild tale she brook'd not to unfold, 
Aiid seal'd is now each lip that could have told. 

XXIII. 
They laid him in the earth, and on his breast, 
Besides the wound that sent his soul to rest, 
They found the scatter'd dints of many a scar, 
Which were not planted there in recent war ; 
Where'er had pass'd his summer years of life, 
It seems they vanish'd in a land of strife ; 
But all unknown his glory or his guilt, 
These only told that somewhere blood was spilt, 
And Ezzelin, who might have spoke the past, 
Retum'dno more — thatnight appear'd his last 



Upon that night (a peasant's is the tale) 
A Serf that cross'd the intervening vale. 
When Cynthia's light almost gave way to morn, 
And nearly veil'd in mist her waning horn; 
A Serf, that rose betimes to thread the wood, 
And hew the bough that bought his children's 

food, 
Pass'd by the river that divides the plain 
Of Otho's lands and Lara's biioad domain : 
He heard a tramp — a horse and horseman broke 
From out the wood — before him was a cloak 
Wrapt round some burthen at his saddle-bow, 
Bent was his head, and hidden was his brow. 
Roused by the sudden sight at such a time, 
And some foreboding that, it might be crime, 
Himself unheeded watch'd the stranger's course, 
Who reach' d the river, bounded from his horse, 
And lifting thence the burthen which he bore, 
Heaved up the bank, and dash'd it from the 

shore, [to watch, 

Then paused, and look'd, and turn'd, and seem'd 
And still another hurried glance would snatch, 
And follow with his step the stream that flow'd, 
As if even yet too much its surface show'd : 
At once he started, stoop'd, around him slrown 
The winter floods had scatter'd heaps of stone; 
Of these the heaviest thence he gr * 1, er'd there 
And slung them « ; lh a more than common eai«. 



Meantime the Serf had crept to where unseci 
Himself might safely mark what this migh 

mean ; 
He caught a glimpse, as of a floating breast. 
And something glitter' d starlike on the vest; 
But ere he well could mark the buoyant trunk 
A massy fragment smote it, and it sunk: 
It rose again, but indistinct to view, 
And left the waters of a purple hue, 
Then deeply disappeared: the horseman gaze( 
Till ebb'd the latest eddy it had raised ; 
Then turning, vaulted on his pawing steed, 
And instant spurr'd him into panting speed. 
His face was mask'd — the features of the dead 
If dead it were, escaped the observer's dread 
But if in sooth a star its bosom bore, 
Sucnis the badge that knighthood ever wore, 
And such 'tis known Sir Ezzelin had worn 
Upon the night that led to such a mom. 
If thus he perish'd, Heaven receive his soul ! 
His undiscover'd limbs to ocean roll ; 
And charity upon the hope would dwell 
It was not Lara's hand by which he fell. 

XXV. 

And Kaled — Lara — Ezzelin, are gone, 
Alike without their monumental stone! 
The first, all efforts vainly strove to wean 
From lingering where her chieftain's blood hac 

been; 
Grief had so tamed a spirit once too proud, 
Her tears were few, her wailing never loud ; 
But furious would you tear her from the spot 
Where yet she scarce believed that he was not 
Her eye shot forth with all the living fire 
That haunts the tigress in her whelpless ire ; 
But left to waste her weary moments there, 
She talk'd all idly unto shapes of air, 
Such as the busy brain of Sorrow paints, 
And woos to listen to her fond complaints : 
And she would sit beneath the very tree 
Where lay his drooping head upon her knee; 
And in that posture where she saw him fall, 
His words, his looks, his dying grasp recall; 
And she had shorn, but saved her raven hair 
4nd oft would snatch it from her bosom there 
And fold, and press it gently to the ground. 
As if she stanch' d anew some phantom's wound 
Herself would question, and for him reply; 
Then rising, start, and beckon him to fly 
From some imagined spectre in pursuit ; 
Then seat her down upon some linden's root, 
And hide her visage with her meagre hand, 
Or tyace strange characters along the sand— 
This could not last — she lies by him she loved; 
Htfi- tale untold — her truth too dearly uroved, 



Wljt Bit^t of Corintfn 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

The grand army of the Turks (in 1715), under 
"he Prime Vizier, to open to themselves a way 
into the heart of the Morea, and to form the 
siege of Napoli di Romania, the most consi- 
derable place in all that country ' , thought it 
oest in the first place to attack Corinth, upon 
which they made several storms. The garrison 
Being weakened, and tire governor seeing it 
was impossible to hold out against so mighty 
a force, thought it fit to beat a parley : but 
while they were treating about the articles, one 
of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein 
they bad six hundred barrels of powder, blew 
li]) by accident, whereby six or seven hundred 
men were killed ; which so enraged the infidels, 
that they would not grant any capitulation, 
but stormed the place with so much fury, that 
they took it, and put most of the garrison, with 
Signior Minotti, the governor, to the sword. 
The rest, with Antonio Bembo, proveditor ex- 
traordinary, were made prisoners of war." — 
History of t lie Turks, vol.iii. p. 151. 



&\)t gbtcge of ^ortntf). 

In the year since Jesns died for men, 
Eighteen hundred years and ten 
We were a gallant company. 
Riding o'er land, and sailing o'er sea 
Oh ! but we went merrily ' 
We forded the river, and clomb the high Ail], 
Never our steeds for a day stood still ; 
Whether we lay in the cave or the shed, 
Our sleep fell soft on the hardest bed ; 



Wnether we couch d in our rough capote, 
On the rougher plank of our gliding boat, 
Or stretch'd on the beach, or our saddl 

spread 
As a pillow beneath the resting head, 
Fresh we woke upon the morrow : 

All our thoughts and words had scope. 

We had health, and we had hope, 
Toil and travel, but no sorrow. 
We were of all tongues and creeds ; — 
Some were those who counted beads, 
Some of mosque, and some of church. 

And some, or I mis-say, of neither ; 
Yet through the wide world might ye search 

Nor find a mother crew nor blither. 

But some are dead, and some are gone, 
And some are scatter'd and alone, 
And some are rebels on the hills 2 

That look along E pirns' valleys, 

Where freedom still at moments ralb>» 
And pays in blood oppression's ills; 

And some are in a far countree, 
And some all restlessly at home ; 

But never more, oh! never, we 
Shall meet to revel and to roam. 

But those hardy days flew cheerily, 

And when they now fall drearily, 

My thoughts, like swallows, skim the maka 

And bear my spirit back again 

Over the earth, and through the air, 

A wild bird and a wanderer. 

'T is this that ever wakes my strain, 

And oft, too oft, implores again 

The few who may endure my Ky, 

To follow me so far away. 

Stranger — wilt thou follow me now, 

And sit with me on Am«» CurinH»'« brow 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



65 



M any a vanish'd year and age, 
And tempest's breath, and battle's isge, 
Have swept o'er Corinth ; yet she stands, 
A fortress Ibrm'd to Freedom's hands. 
The whirlwind's wrath, the earthquake's 

ahock, 
Have lei't antouch'd her hoary rock, 
The keystone of a land, which still, 
Though fall'n, looks proudly on that hill. 
The landmark to the double tide 
That purpling rolls on either side, 
As if their waters chafed to meet, 
Vet pause and crouch beneath her feet. 
But could the blood before her shed 
Since first Timoleon's brother bled, 
Or barfled Persia's despot fled. 
Arise from out the earth which drank 
The stream of slaughter as it sank, 
That sanguine ocean would o'erfiow 
Her isthmus idly spread below : 
Or could the bones of all the slain, 
Who perish'd there, be piled again, 
That rival pyramid would rise 
Moremountain-like.through those clear skies 
Than yon tower-capp'd Acropolis, 
Which seems the very clouds to kiss. 

ii. 

On dun Cithasron's ridge appears 
The gleam of twice ten thousand spears ; 
ixkd downward to the Isthmian plain, 
From shore to shore of either main, 
The tent is pitch'd, the crescent shines 
Vlong the Moslem's leaguering lines ; 
And the dusk Spain's bands 3 advance 
Beneath each bearded pacha's glance ; 
And far and wide as eye can reach 
The turban'd cohorts throng the beach ; 
And there the Arab's camel kneels, 
And there his steed the Tartar wheels ; 
The Turcoman hath left his herd, ■* 
The sabre round his loins to gird ; 
And there the volleying thunders pour, 
Till waves grow smoother to the roar. 
The trench is dug, the cannon's breath 
W-'ngs the far hissing globe of death ; 
Fast whiil the fragments from the wall, 
Winch crumbles with the ponderous bail • 
And from that wall the foe replies, 
O'er dusty plain and smoky skies, 
With fires that answer fast and well 
The summons of the Infidel. 



But near and nearest to the wall 
Of those who wish and work : u fall, 



With deeper skill in war's black art, 
Than Othman's sons, and high of heart 
As any chief that ever stood 
Triumphant in the fields of blood; 
From post to post, and deed to deed, 
Fast spurring on his reeking steed, 
Where sallying ranks the trench assail, 
And make the foremost Moslem quail ; 
Or where the battery, guarded well, 
Remains as yet impregnable, 
Al ghting cheerly to inspire 
The soldier slackening in his fire; 
The first and freshest o! the host 
Which Stamboul's sultan there can bout* 
To guide the follower o'er the field. 
To point the tube, the lance to wield, 
Or whirl around the bickering blade ; — 
Was Alp, the Adrian renegade ! 



From Venice — once a race of worth 
His gentle sires — he drew his birth; 
But late an exile from her shore, 
Against his countrymen he bore 
The arms they taught to bear ; and now 
The turban girt his shaven brow. 
Through many a change had Corinth pas- 4 
With Greece to Venice' rule at last; 
And here, before her walls, with those 
To Greece and Venice equal foes, 
He stood a foe, with all the zeal 
Which young and fiery converts feel, 
"Within whose heated bosom throngs 
The memory of a thousand wrongs. 
To him had Venice ceased to be 
Her ancient civic boast — " the Free ; " 
And in the palace of St. Mark- 
Unnamed accusers in the dark 
W r ithin the " Lion's mouth" hadjplaced 
A charge against him uneffaced : 
He fled in time, and savd his life, 
To waste his future years in strife, 
That taught his land" how great her loss 
In him who triumph'd o'er the Cross 
'Gainst which he rear d the Crescent big«v 
And battled to avenge or die. 



Coumourgi 5 — he whose closing scene 
Adorn 'd the triumph of Eugene, 
When on Carlowitz' bloody plain, 
The last and mightiest of the slain, 
He sank, regretting not to die, 
But cursed the Christian's victory— 
Coumourgi — can his glory cease. 
That latest cnriQi'eroJ' »f G» 



GG 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



TT11 Christian hands to Greece restore 
Phe freedom Venice gave of yore ? 
A hundred years have roll'd away 
Since he refix'd the Moslem's sway, 
And now he led the Mussulman, 
And gave the guidance of the van 
T j Alp, w ho well repaid the trust 
By eities levell'd with the dust ; 
And proved, hy many a deed of death 
How firm his heart in novel faith. 



The walls grew weak ; and fast and hot 

Against them pour'd the ceaseless shot, 

With unahating fury sent 

From battery to battlement ; 

And thunder-like the pealing din 

Rose from each heated culverin : 

And here and there some crackling dome 

Was fired before the exploding bomb : 

And as the fabric sanlc beneath 

The shattering shell's volcanic breath, 

In red and wreathing columns flash'd 

The flame, as loud the ruin crash'd, 

Or into countless meteors driven, 

Its earth-stars melted into heaven ; 

Whose clouds that day grew doubly dan, 

Impervious to the hidden sun, 

With vol timed smoke that slowly grew 

To one wide sky of sulphurous hue. 



But not for vengeance, long delay 'd, 

Alone, did A!p, the renegade, 

The Moslem warriors sternly teach 

His skill to pierce the promised breach : 

Within these walls a maid was pent 

His hope would w r in, without consent 

Of that inexorable sire, 

Whose heart refused him in its ire, 

When Alp, beneath his Christian name, 

Her virgin hand aspired to claim. 

In happier mood and earlier time, 

While unimpeach'd for traitorous crime, 

Gayest in gondola or hall, 

He glitter' d through the Carnival ; 

And tuned the softest serenade 

That e'er on Adria's waters play'd 

At midnight to Italian nftiid. 



And many deem'd her heart was won; 
Fcr sought by numbers, given to none, 
Had young Francesca's Lhiul remain d 
Stifl by *he ohureh's b«*^ «im&Kb'3 . 



And when the Adriatic boie 
Lanciotto to the Paynim shore, 
Her wonted smiles were seen to fail. 
And pensive wax'd the maid and palo; 
More constant at confessional, 
More rare at masque and festival; 
Or seen at such, with downcast eyes, 
Which conquer'd hearts they ceased to 'prvi 
With listless look she seems to gaze ; 
With humbler care her foim arrays; 
-Her voice less lively in the song; 
Her step, though light, less fleet among 
The pairs, on whom the Morning's glance 
Breaks, yet unsated with the dance. 



Sent by the state to guard the land, 
(Which, wrested from the Moslem's hand, 
While Sobieski tamed his pride 
By Buda's wall and Danube's side, 
The chiefs of Venice wrung away 
From Patra to Euboea's bay,) 
Minotti held in Corinth's towers 
The Doge's delegated powers, 
While yet the pitying eye of Peace 
Smiled o'er her long forgotten Greece* 
And ere that faithless truce was broke 
Which freed her from the unchristian ytfca 
With him his gentle daughter came ; 
Nor there, since Menelaus' dame 
Forsook her lord and land, to prove 
What woes await on lawless love, 
Had fairer form adorn'd the shore 
Than she, the matchless stranger bore 



The wall is rent, the ruins yawn ; 
And, with to-morrow's earliest dawn, 
O'er the disjointed mass shall vault 
The foremost of the fierce assault. 
The bands are rank'd ; the chosen van 
Of Tartar and of Mussulman, 
The full of hope, misnamed " forlorn," 
Who hold the thought of death in scorn. 
And win their way wrnh falchion's force, 
Or pave the path with many a corse, 
O'er which the following brave may rise, 
Their stepping-stone — the last who dies ! 



T is midnight: on the mountains bre-va 
The cold, round moon shines deeply dowBi 
Blue roll the waters, blue the sky 
Spreads like an ocean hung on -high, 
Bespangled with those isles of light, 
So wildly, spiritually bright ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 67 


Who ever gazed upon them shining 


Nor his, what burning patriots fo£. 


And turn'd to earth without repining, 


The stem e.xaltedness of zeal, 


Nor wish d for wings to flee away, 


Profuse of blood, untired in toil. 


And mix with their eternal ray? 


W r h*n battling on the parent soil 


The waves on either shore lay there 


He stood alone — a renegade 


Calm, clear, and azure as the air; 


Against the country he betray' d ; 


And scarce their foam the pebbles shook, 


He stood alone amidst his band, 


But murmur'd meekly as the brook. 


Without a trusted heart or hand : 


The winds were pillow'd on the waves; 


They follow'd him, for he was brav<i, 


The banners droop'd along their staves, 


And great the spoil he got and gave : 


And, as they fell around them furling, 


They crouch'd to him, for he had skill 


Above them shone the crescent curling; 


To warp and wield the vulgar will : 


And that deep silence was unbroke, 


But still his Christian origin 


Save where the watch his signal spoke, 


With them was little less than sin. 


Save where the steed neigh'd oft and shrih, 


They envied even the faithless fame 


And echo answer'd from the hill, 


He earn'd beneath a Moslem name , 


And the wide hum of that wdd host 


Since he, their mightiest chief, had been 


Rustled like leaves from coast to coast, 


In youth a bitter Nazarene. 


As rose the Muezzin's voice in air 


They did not know how pride can stoop, 


In midnight call to wonted prayer ; 


When baffled feelings withering droop; 


It rose, that chanted mournful strain, 


They did not know how hate can burn 


Like some lone spirit's o'er the plain: 


In hearts once changed from soft to stem 


'T was musical, but sadly sweet, 


Nor all the false and fatal zeal 


Such as when winds and harp-strings meet, 


The convert of revenge can feci. 


And taice a long unmeasured tone, 


He ruled them — man mat ■ r»'C (Ls w orst, 


To mortal minstrelsy unknown. 


By ever daring to be first : 


It seem'd to those within the wall 


So lions o'er the jackal sway; 


A cry prophetic of their fall : 


The jackal points, he fells the prey, 


It struck even the besieger's ear 


Then on the vulgar yelling press, 


With something ominous and drear, 


To gorge the relics of success. 


An undefined and sudden thrill, 




Which makes the heart a moment still, 


XIII. 


Then beat with quicker pulse, ashamed 


His head grows fever 'd, and his puise 


Of that strange sense its silence framed ; 


The quick successive throbs convulse; 


Such as a sudden passing bell 


In vain from side to side he throws 


Wakes, though but for a stranger's knell. 


His form, in courtship of repose ; 




Or if he dozed, a sound, a start 


XII. 


Awoke him with a sunken heart 


The tent of Alp was on the shore ; 


The turban on his hot brow press'd, 


The sound was hush'd, the prayer was o'er; 


The mail weigh'd lead-like on his bieast, 


The watch was set, the night-round made, 


Though oft and long beneath its weight 


All mandates issued and obey'd: 


Upon his eyes had slumber sate, 


'Tis but another anxious night, 


Without or couch or canopy, 


His pains the morrow may requite 


Except a rougher field and sky 


With all revenge and love can pay, 


Than now might yield a warrior's bed, 


In guerdon for their long delay. 


Than now along the heaven was spread. 


Few hours remain, and he hath need 


He could not rest, he could not stay 


Of rest, to nerve for many a deed 


Within his tent to wait for day, 


Of slaughter : but within his soul 


But walk'd him forth along the sand, 


The thoughts like troubled waters roll 


Where thousand sleepers strew'd the strand 


He stood alone among the host ; 


What pillow'd them? and why should he 


Not his the loud fanatic boast 


More wakeful than the humblest be? 


To plant the crescent o'er the cross. 


Since more their peril, worse their toil, 


Or risk a life with little loss, 


And yet they fearless dream of spoil ; 


Secure in paradise to be 


While he alone, where thousands pass'd 


Dy Houris loved immortally : 


A night of sleep, per«hance then last, 
w2 



68 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



In sickly vigil wander'd on, 
And envied aU he ga/.ed upon. 



He felt his soul become more light 
Beneath the freshness of the night. 
Cool was the silent sky, though calm, 
And bathed his brow with airy balm : 
Behind, the camp — before him lay, 
In many a winding creek and bay, 
Lepanto s gulf; and. on the brow 
Of Delphi's hill, unshaken snow, 
High and eternal, such as shone 
Through thousand summers brightly gone, 
Along the gulf, the mount, the clime; 
It will not melt, like man, to time : 
Tyrant and slave are swept away, 
Less form'd to wear before the ray ; 
But that white veil, the lightest, frailest, 
Which on the mighty mount thou hailest, 
While tower and tree are torn and rent, 
Shines o'er its craggy battlement; 
In form a peak, in height a cloud, 
In texture like a hovering shroud, 
Thus high by parting Freedom spread, 
As from her fond abode she fled, 
And linger d on the spot, where long 
Her prophet spirit spake in song. 
Ob ! still her step at moments falters 
O'er wither'd fields, and ruin'd altars, 
And fain would wake, in souls too broken, 
By pointing to each glorious token: 
But vain her voice, till better days 
Dawn in those yet remember' d rays, 
Which shone upon the Persian flying, 
Aud saw the Spartan smile in dying. 



Not mindless of these mighty times 
Was Alp, despite his flight and crimes ; 
And through this night, as on he wander d, 
And o'er the past and present ponder d, 
And thought upon the glorious dead 
Who there in better cause had bled, 
He felt how faint and feebly dim 
The fame that could accrue to him, 
Who cheer'd the band, and waved the sword, 
A traitor in a turban'd horde ; 
And led them to the lawless siege, 
Whose best success were sacrilege. 
Not so had those his fancy number'd, 
The chiefs whose dust around bun si umber' d; 
Their phalanx ma/ hall'd on the plain, 
Whose bulwarks w«re not then in vain. 
They fell devoted, jut ud 'ying ; 
The very gale thei ianKS secrr'd sighing, 



The waters murmur'd < f their name ; 
The woods were peopled with their fasw ; 
The silent pillar, lone and grey, 
Claim d kindred with their sacred clay; 
Their spirits wrapp'd the dusky mountain 
Their memory sparkled o'er the fountain ; 
The meanest rill, the mightiest river 
Roll'd mingling with their lame for ever. 
Despite of every joke she bears, 
That land is glory's still and theirs ! 
'T is still a watch-word to the earth: 
When man would do a deed of worth 
He points to Greece, and turns to tread, 
So sanction'd, on the tyrant's head- 
He looks to her, and '-ushes on 
Where life is lost, or freedom won. 



Still by the shore Alp mutely mused, 
And wood the freshness Night diffused. 
Tuere shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea. 
Which changeless rolls eternally ; 
So that wildast of waves, in their angrier 
mood, ' L rood ; 

Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a 
And the powerless moon beholds them flow., 
Heedless if she come or go : 
Calm or high, in main or bay, 
On their course she hath no sway. 
The rock unworn its base doth bare, 
Ami looks o'er the surf, but it comes not there; 
And the fringe of the foam may be seen below, 
On the line that it left long ages ago ■ 
A smooth short space of yellow sand 
Between it and the greener land. 

He wander'd on, along the beach, 
Till within the range of a carbine's reach 
Of the leaguer'd wall ; but they saw him not, 
Or how could he 'scape from the hostile shot ? 
Did traitors lurk in the Christians' hold? 
Were their hands grown stiff, or their hearts 

wax'd cold? 
I know not, in sooth ; but from yonder wall 
There flash'd no fire, and there hiss'd no ball, 
Though he storil beneath the bastion's frown, 
That flank'd til sea-ward gate of the town ; 
Though he heard the sound, and could almont 

tell 
The sullen words of the sentinel, 
As his measured step or. the stone below 
Clank'd, as he paced it to and fro ; 
And he saw the lean dogs beneath the wall 
Hold o'er the dead their carnival, 
Gorging and growling o'er carcass and limb' 
They were too busy to bark at him ! 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



69 



Ifrom a Tartar's skull they bad stripp'd the flesh, 
As. ye peel the fig when its fruit is fresh ; 
ind their white tusks crunch' d o'er the whiter 
skull, 6 [edge grew dull, 

As it siipp'd through their jaws, when their 
As they lazily mumbled the bones of the dead, 
When they scarce could rise from the spot 

where they fed ; 
So well had they broken a lingering fast 
With those who had fallen for that night's re- 
past, [sand, 
A nd Alp knew, by the turbans that roll'd on the 
The foremost of these were the best of his band : 
Crimson and green were the shawls of their 

. wear, 
And each scalp had a single long tuft of hair, 7 
All the rest was shaven and bare. 
The scalps were in the wild dog's maw, 
The hair was tangled round his jaw. 
But close by the shore, on the edge of the gulf, 
There sat a vulture flapping a wolf, 
Who had stolen from the hills, but kept away, 
Scared by the dogs, from the human prey ; 
But he seized on his share of a steed that lay, 
Pick'd by the birds, on the sands of the bay. 



Alp turn'd him from the sickening sight : 
Never had shaken his nerves in fight ; 
But he better could brook to behold the dying, 
Deep in the tide of their warm blood lying, 
Scorch'd with the death-thirst, and writhing in 

vain, 
Than the perishing dead who are past all pain. 
There issomcthingof pridein the perilous hour, 
Whate'er be the shape in which death may 

lower ; 
For Fame is there to say who bleeds, 
And Honour's eye on daring deeds ! 
But when all is past, it is humbling to tread 
*Ver the weltering field of the tombless dead, 
And see worms of the earth, and fowls of the 

air, 
Beasts of the forest, all gathering there. 
All regarding man as their prey, 
All rejoicing in his decay. 

XVIII. 

There is a temple in ruin stands, 

Fashion'd by long forgotten hands ; 

Two or three columns, and many a stone, 

Marble and granite, with grass o'ergrown ! 

Out upon Time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon Time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future co grieve 



O'er that which hath bee and o'er \Lzl ;ihic\ 

must be 
What we have seen, our sons shall s«e ; 
Remnants of things that have pass'd away, 
Fragments of stone, rear'd by creatures of clay 



He sate him down at a pillar's base, 

And pass'd his hand athwart his face ; 

Like one in dreary musing mood, 

Declining was his attitude ; 

His head was drooping on his breast, 

Fever'd, throbbing, and oppress'd : 

And o'er his brow, so downward bent, 

Oft his beating fingers went, 

Hurriedly, as you may see 

Your own run over the ivory key, 

Ere the measured tone is taken 

By the chords you woidd awaken. 

There he sate all heavily, 

As he heard the night-wind sigh. 

Was it the wind through some holiow stone, 

Send that soft and tender moan ? 

He lifted his head, and he look'd on the sea, 

But it was unrippled as glass may be ; 

He look'd on the long grass — it waved not 

a blade ; 
How was that gentle sound convey'd? 
He look'd to the banners — each flag lay still, 
So did the leaves on Citlueron's hill, 
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek; 
What did that sudden sound bespeak? 
He turn'd to the left — is he sure of sight? 
There sate a lady, youthful and bright ! 



He started up with more of fear 

Than if an armed foe were near. 

" God of my fathers! what is here? 

Who art thou, and wherelore sent 

So near a hostile armament? " 

His trembling hands refused to sign 

The cross he deem'd no more divine ■ 

He had resumed it in that hour, 

But conscience wrung away the power. 

He gazed, he saw : he knew the face 

Of beauty, and the form of grace ; 

It was Francesca by his side, 

The maid who might have been his bride 

The rose was yet upon her chcok, 
But mellow 71 with a tenderer streak: 
Where was the play of her soft lips fled? 
Gone was the smile that enh'ven'rl their red 
The ocean's calm within thy view, 
Beside her eve had less to blue: 



70 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



.Bat like that cold wave it stood still, 
And its glance, though clear, was chill. 
Around her form a thin robe twining, 
Nought conceal'd her bosom shining ; 
Through the parting of her hair, 
Floating darkly downward there, 
Her rounded ann show'd white and bare : 
And ei ; **i she made reply, 
Once ,he raised her hand on high ; 
It was so wan, and transparent of hue, 
You might have seen the moon shine through. 



<• I come from my rest to him I love best, 

That I may be happy, and he may be bless' d. 

I have pass'd the guards, the gate, the wall ; 

Sought thee in safety through foes and all. 

'T is said the lion will turn and rlee 

From a maid in the pride of her purity ; 

And the Power on high, that can shield the good 

Thus from the tyrant of the wood, 

Hath extended its mercy to guard me as well 

From the hands of the leaguering infidel. 

I come — and if \ come in vain 

Never, oh never, we meet again . 

Thou hast done a fearful deed 

In falling away from thy father's creed : 

But dash that turban to earth, and sign 

The sign of the cross, and for ever be mine ; 

Wring the black drop from thy heart, 

And to-morrow unites us no more to part." 

" And where should our bridal couch be spread? 
In the midst of the dying and the dead ? 
For to-morrow we give to the slaughter and flame 
The sons and the shrines of the Christian name. 
None, save thou and thine, I 've sworn, 
Shall be left upon the morn : 
Put thee will I bear to a lovely spot, 
Where our hands shall be join'd, and our 

sorrow forgot. • 

There thou yet shalt be my bride, 
When once again I 've qucii'd the pride 
Of Venice ; and her hated race 
Have felt the arm they would debase 
Scourge, with a whip of scorpions, those 
Whom vice and envy made my foes." 

Cpon his hand she laid her own — 

Light wa:< the touch, but it thrill d to the bone, 

*nd shut a dullness to his heart, 

Which fix'd him beyond the power to start. 

Though slight was that grasp so mortal cold, 

He could not loose him from its hold ; 

But never did clasp of one so dear 

Strike on the pulse with such feeling of fear, 



As those thin fingers, long and white, 
Froze through hisblood by their touch thatnight 
The feverish glow of his brow was gone, 
And his heart sank so still that it felt like stone, 
As he look'd on the face, and beheld its hue, 
So deeply changed from what he knew : 
Fair but faint — without the ray 
Of mind, that made each feature play 
Like sparkling waves on a sunny day ; 
And her motionless lips lay still as death, 
And her words came forth without her breath, 
And there rose not a heave o'er her bosom's 

swell, [dwell. 

And there seem'd not a pulse in her veins to 
Though her eye shoue out, yet the lids were 

fix'd, [unmix'd 

And the glance that it gave was wild and 
With aught of change, as the eyes may seem 
Of the restless who walk in a troubled dream; 
Like the figures on arras, that gloomily glare, 
Stirr'd by the breath of the wintiy air, 
So seen by the dying lamp's fitful light, 
lifeless, but lifedike, and awful to sight; 
As they seem, through the dimness, about to 

come down [ frown , a 

From the shadowy wall where their imagct 
Fearfully flitting to and fro, 
As the gusts on the tapestry come and go. 

"If not for love of me be given 
Thus much, then, for the love of heaven.— 
Again I say — that turban tear 
From off thy faithless brow, and sweai 
Thine injured country's sons to spare, 
Or thou art lost ; and never shalt see — 
Not earth — that's past — but heaven or me 
If this thou dost accord, albeit 
A heavy doom 't is thine to meet, 
That doom shall half absolve thy sin, 
And mercy's gate may receive thee within 
But pause one moment more, and take 
The curse of Him thou didst forsake ; 
And look once more to heaven, and see 
Its love for ever shut from thee. 
There is a light cloud by the moon — 
'T is passing, and will pass full soon — 
If, by the time its vapoury sail 
Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil. 
Thy heart within thee is not changed. 
Then God and man arc both aver.ged; 
Dark will thy doom be, darker still 
Thine immortality of ill." 

Alp look'd to heaven, and saw on hiprb 

The sign she spake of in the sky ; 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



71 



But his heart was swr lien, and tiirn'd aside, 

By deep interminable pride. 

This first false passion of ins breast 

Roll'd like a torrent o'er the rest, 

He sue for mercy ! He dismay 'd 

By wild words of a timid maid ! 

He, wrong'd by Venice, vow to save 

Her sons, devoted to the grave! 

No — though that cloud were thunder's worst, 

And charged to crush him — let it burst! 

He look'd upon it earnestly 

Without an accent of reply ; 

He watch' d it passing; it is flown. 

Fu.l on his eje the clear moon shone, 

And thus he spake — " Whate'er my fate, 

I am no changeling — 'tis too late: 

The reed in storms may bow and quiver, 

Then rise again; the tree must shiver. 

What Venice made me, I must be, 

Her foe in all, save love to thee : 

But thou art safe: oh, fly with me !" 

He turn'd, but she is gone ! 

Nothing is there but the column stone. 

flith she sunk in the earth, or melted in air? 

He saw not — he knew not — but nothing is ther 2. 



The night is past, and shines the sun 
As if that mom were a jocund one. 
Lightly and brightly breaks away 
The Morning from her mantle grey, 
And the Noon will look on a sultry day. • 
Hark to the trump, and the drum, 
\nd the mournful sound of the barbarous horn 
\nd the flap of the banners, that flit as they 're 
borne, [hum, 

**.nd the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's 
And the clash, and the shout, "They come! 
they come! " [the sword 

The horsetails are pluck' d from the ground, and 
From its sheath: and they form, and but wait 

for the word. 
Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman, 
Strike your tents, and throng to the van ; 
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain. 
That the fugitive may flee in vain, 
When he breaks from the town ; and none escape, 
Aged or young, in the Christian shape; 
While your fellows on foot, in a fiery mass, 
Bloi xlstain the breach through w hich they pass. 
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein ; 
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane ; 
White is the foam of their champ on the bit : 
The spears are uplifted; the matches t*> Jit • 



The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar, 
And crush the wall they have crumbled before 
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar; 

Alp at their head; his right arm is bare, 

So is the blade of his scimitar: 

The khan and the pachas are all at t) eirpost 

The vizier himself at the head of the host, 

When the culverin's signal is fired, then on ; 

Leave not in Corinth a living one — 

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls, 

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls 

God and the prophet — Alia Hu ! 

Up to the skies with that wild halloo ! 

" There the breach lies for passage, the ladder 

to scale; [ye fail? 

And your hands on your sabres, and how should 
He who first downs with the red cross may crave 
His heart's dearest wish ; let him ask it, and 

have !" 
Thus uttcr'd Coumourgi, the dauntless vizier; 
The reply was the brandish of sabre and spear 
And the shout of fierce thousands in joyoa* 

ire : — 
Silence — hark to the signal — fire! 



As the wolves, that headlong go 

On the stately buffalo, 

Though with fiery eyes, and angry roar, 

And hoofs that stamp, and horns that gore, 

He tramples on earth, or tosses on high 

The foremost, who rush on his strength bu' 

to die: 
Thus against the wall they went, 
Thus the first were backward bent; 
Many a bosom, sheathed in brass, 
Strew'd the earth like broken glass, 
Shiver'd by the shot, that tore 
'lhe ground whereon they moved no more 
Even as they fell, in files they lay, 
Like the mower's grass at the close of day, 
When his work is done on the levclTd plain 
Such was the fall of tt-r foremost slain. 



As the spring-tides, with heavy plash, 

From the cliffs inradir-.g da^h 

Huge fragments, sapp'd by the ceaseless flo« 

Till white and thundering down they go, 

Like the avalanche's snow 

On the Alpine vales below; 

Thus at length, outbrcathed and worn, 

Corinth's sons were downward borne 

By the long and oft renew'd 

Charge of the Moslem multitude. 



72 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



In firmness they stood, and in masses they 
fell, 

Heap'd, by the host of the infidel, 

Hand to hand, and loot to foot: 

Nothing there, save dea'h, was mute; 

Stroke, and thrust, and flash, and cry 

For quarter, or for victory. 

Mingle there with the volleying thunder, 

Which makes the distant cities wonder 

How the sounding battle goes, 

II with them, or for their foes ; 

If they must mourn, or may rejoice 

In th-it annihilating voice, 

Whici. pierces the deep hills through and 

Jirough 
With an echo dread and new : 
You might have heard it, on that day, 
O'er Salamis and Megara; 
(We have heard the hearers say,) 
Even unto Pirams' bay. 



from the point of encountering blades to the 

hilt, 
Sabres and swords with blood were gilt ; 
But the rampart is won, and the spoil begun, 
And all but the after carnage done. 
Shriller shrieks now mingling come 
From within the plunder 'd dome: 
Hark to the haste of flying feet, 
That splash in the blood of the slippery street; 
But here and there, where 'vantage ground 
Against the foe may still be found, 
Desperate groups, of twelve or ten, 
Make a pause, and turn again — 
With banded backs against the wall, 
Fiercely stand, or fighting fall. 

There stood an old man — his hairs werewhite, 
But his veteran arm was full of might: 
So gallantly bore he the brunt of the fray, 
The dead before him, on that day, 
In a semicircle lay ; 
Still he combated unwounded, 
Though retreating, unsurrounded. 
Many a scar of Conner fight 
Lurk'd beneath his corslet bright ; 
But of every wound his body bore, 
Each and all had been ta'en before: 
Though aged, he was so iron of limb, 
Few of our youth could cope with bim ; 
And the foes, whom he singly kept at bay, 
Outrmmber'd his thin hairs of silver grey 
From right to left his sabre swpt: 
Many an Othman mother wept 
§ons that were unborn, when dipp'd 



His weapon first in Moslem gcre, 

Ere his years could count a score. 

Of all he might have been the sire 

Who fell that day beneath his ire: 

For, sonless left long years ago, 

His wrath made many a childless foe, 

And since the day, when in th } striut 9 

His only boy had met his fate, 

His parent's iron hand did doom 

More than a human hecatomb. 

If shades by carnage be appeased, 

Patroclus' spirit less was pleased 

Than his, Minotti's son, who died 

Where Asia's bounds and ours divide. 

Buried he lay, where thousands before 

For thousands of years were inhumed on lh* 

shore ; 
What of them is left, to tell 
Where they lie, and how they fell? 

Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in theu 
graves ; 

Kut they live in the verse that immortally saves 



Hark to the Allah shout! a band [hand: 

Of the Mussulman bravest and best is U 

Their leader's nervous arm is bare, 

Swifter to smite, and n -ver to spare — 

Unclothed to the shoulder it waves them >n; 

Thus in the fight is he ever known : 

Others a gaudier garb may show, 

To tempt the spoil of the greedy foe ; 

Many a hand's on a richer hilt, 

But none on a steel more ruddily gilt; 

Many a loftier turban may wear, — 

Alp is but known by the white arm bare; 

Look through the thick of the fight, 'tis ther« 

There is not a standard on that shore 

So w r ell advanced the ranks befoie: 

There is not a banner in Moslem war 

Will lure the Delhis half so far; 

It glances like a falling star! 

Where'er that mighty arm is seen, 

The bravest be, or late have been ; 

There the craven cries for quarter 

Vainly to the vengeful Tartar ; 

Or the hero, silent lying, 

Scorns to yieid a groan in dying; 

Mustering his last feeble blow 

'Gainst the nearest levell'd foe, 

Though faint beneath the mutual wou&V 

Grappling on the gory ground. 

XXVII. 

Still the old man stood erect, 

And AV» "*• '"♦>m«>ut (;horV«) 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



73 



"Yield thei, Minotti; quarter take, 
For tiiiue own, thy daughter's sake." 

"Never, renegado, never! [ever." 

Though the life of thy gift would last for 

'• Francesca ! — Oh, my promised bride ! 
Must she too perish by thy pride?" 

"She is safe." — -'Where? where?" — In 

heaven ; 
From whence thy traitor soul is driven — 
Far iron- thee, and undefiled." 
Grimly then Minotti smiled, 
As he saw Alp staggering bow 
Before his words, as with a blow. 

'Oh God ! when died she?" — " Yesternight — 

Nor weep I for her spirit's flight: 

None of my pure race shall be 

Slaves to Mahomet and thee — 

Come on !" — That challenge is in vain — 

Alp'? already with the slain! 

While Minotti's words were wreaking 

More revenge in bitter speaking 

Than his falchion's point had found, 

Had the time allow' d to wound, 

From within the neighbouring porch 

Of a long defended church 

Where the last and desperate few 

Would the failing fight renew, 

The sharp shot dash'd Alp to tne grouuti ; 

Ere an eye could view the wound 

That crash'd through the braiu of the infidel, 

Round he spun, and down he fell; 

A flash like fire within his eyes 

Blazed, as he bent no more to rise, 

And then eternal darkness sunk 

Through all the palpitating trunk; 

Nought of life left, save a quivering 

Where his limbs were slightly shivering 

They turn'd him on his back ; his breast 

And brow were stain'd with gore and dust, 

And through his lips the life-blood oozed, 

From its deep veins lately loosed; 

But in his pulse there was no throb, 

Nor on his lips one dying sob; 

Sigh, nor word, nor struggling breath 

Heralded his way to death: 

Ere his very thought could pray, 

Unanel'd he pass'd away, 

Without a hope from mercy's nul,— • 

To the last — a Renegade. 

XX VIII, 

Fearfully the yell arose 

Uf his followers, and his foes; 



These in joy, in fury those: 
Then again in conflict mixing, 
Clashing swords, and spears transfix!) & 

Interchanged the blow and thrust 

Hurling warriors in the dust. 

Street by street, and fool by foot, 

Still Minotti dares dispute 

The latest portion of the land 

Left beneath his high command; 

With him, aiding heart and hand, 

The remnant of his gallant band. 

Still the church is tenable, 

Whence issued late the fated baft 
That hah' avenged the city's fa'l 

When Alp, her fierce assailant, fell 

Thither bending sternly back, 

They leave before a bloody track ; 

And, with their faces to the foe, 

Dealing wounds with every blow, 

The chief, and his retreating train, 

Join to those within the fatf „•; 

There they yet may breathe awhile 

Shelter'd by the massy pile. 

XXIX. 

Brief breathinjr-time! the turban 'd iost, 
With adding ranks and raging boast, 
Press onwards with such strength and heat 
Their numbers balk their own retreat; 
Fcr narrow the way that led to the spot 
Where still the Christians yielded not; 
And the foremost, if fearful, may vainly try 
Through the massy column to turn and fly; 
They perforce must do or die. 
They die ; but ere their eyes could close, 
Avengers o'er their bodies rose; 
Fresh and furious, fast they fill 
The ranks unthinn'd, though slaughtered atill, 
And faint the weary Christians wax. 
Before the still renew 'd attacks: 
And now the Othmans gain the gate, 
Still resists its iron weight, 
And still, all deadly aim'd and hot, 
From every cre v ice comes the shot; 
From evciy shatter'd window pour 
The volleys of the sulphurous shower; 
But the portal wavering grows and weah- 
The iron yields, the hinges creak — 
It bends — it falls — and all is o'er; 
Lost Corinih may resist no more! 

XXX. 

Darkly, sicdy, and all alone, 
Minotti stood o'er the altar stone* 
Madonna's face uuon him shone, 



74 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH 



Painted in he ivemy hues above. 
Wit)- eye.', of light and looks of love; 
And placed upon that holy shrine 
To fix our thoughts on things divine, 
When pictured there, we kneeling see 
Her, and the boy-God on her knee, 
Smiling sweetly on each prayer 
To heaven, as if to wait it there 
Still she smiled ; even now she smiles, 
Though slaughter streams along her aisles: 
Minotti lifted his aged eye, 
And made the sign of a cross with a sigh, 
Then seized a torch which blazed thereby, 
And still he stood, while, with steel and flame, 
Inward and onward the Mussulman came 



Massy and deep, a glittering prize, 
Bnghtly it sparkles to plunderers' eyes: 
That morn it held the holy wine, 
Converted by Christ to his blood so divine 
Which his worshippers drank at the break 
of day, [ f j a>. 

To shrive their souls ere they join'd ii >b* 
Still a few drops within it lay ; 
And round the sacred table glow 
Twelve lofty lamps, in splendid row, 
From the purest metal east ; 
A spoil — the richest, and the last. 



XXXI. 

The -aults beneath the mosaic stone 
Contain'd the dead of ages gone; 
Their names were on the graven floor, 
But now illegible with gore ; 
The carved crests, and curious hues 
The varied marble's veins diffuse, [strown 
Were smear'd, and slippery — stain'd anc 
With broken swords, and helms o'erthrown : 
There were dead above, and the dead below 
Lay cold in many a coffin'd row; 
You might see them piled in .sable state, 
By a pale light through a gloomy grate ; 
But War had euter'd their dark caves, 
And stored along the vaulted graves 
Her sulphurous treasures, thickly spread 
In masses by the fleshless dead : 

Here, throughout the siege, had been 
The Christians' chiefest magazine , 
To these a late foim'tl train now led, 
Minotti's last and stern resource 
Against the foe's o'erwhelming force. 

XXXII. 

Tr.e foe came on, and few remain 

To strive, and those must strive in vain : 

For lack of further lives, to slake 

The thirsl of vengeance now awake, 

With barbarous blows they gash the dead, 

Ami lop the already lifeless head, 

And fell the statues from their niche, 

And spoil the shrines of offerings rich, 

And from each other's rude hands wrest 

The silver vessels saints had bless'd. 

To the high altar on they go ; 

Oh, but it made a g'orious ohow ! 

On its table still behold 

The cup of consecrated gold ; 



So near they came, the nearest stretcn'a 
To grasp the spoil he almost reach'd, 

When old Minotti's hand 
Touch'd with the torch the train — 

T is fired! 
Spire, vaults, the shrine, the spoil, the slain, 
The turban'd victors, the Christian band 
All that of living or dead remain, 
HmTd on high with the shiver'd fane, 

In one wild roar expired! [down-" 
The shatter' d town — the walls throw* 
The waves a moment backward bent — 
The hills that shake, although imrent, 

As if an earthquake pass'd — 
The thousand shapeless things all drirao 
In cloud and flame athwart the heaven, 

By that tremendous blast — 
Proclaim'd the desperate conflict o'er 
On that too long afflicted shore : 
Up to the sky like rockets go 
All that mingled there below: 
Many a tall and goodly man, 
Scorch'd and shrivell'd to a span, 
When he fell to earth again 
Like a cinder strew'd the plain: 
Down the ashes shower like rain ; 
Some fell in the gulf, which ^e^eived the 

sprinkles 
With a thousand circling wrinkles; 
Some fell on the shore, but, far away, 
Scatter' d o'er the isthmus lay: 
Christian or Moslem, which be they* 
Let then mothers see and say! 
When in cradled rest they lay, 
And ea'd nursing mother smiled 
On the 5 set sleep of hcjr child 
Little docni'd she such a day 
Would rend those tender limbs away. 
Not the matrons that them bore 
Could discern their offspring more : 



THE SIEGE OF CORINTH. 



75 



That one moment left no trace 
More of human form or face 
Save a scatter" d seal}) or bone : 
And down came blazing rafters, strown 
Around, and many a falling stone, 
Deeply dinted in the clay, 
All blacken'd there and reeking lay. 
All the living things that heard 
That deadly earth-shock disappeared: 
The wild birds flew ; the wild dogs fled, 
And howling left the unburied dead ; 
The camels from their keepers broke, 
The distant steer forsook the yoke — 
Xbr Hearer steed plunged o'er the plain, 
£..•-<• i njst his girth, and tore his rein; 



The bull-frog's note, from out the marsJt, 
Deep-mouth'd arose, and doubly harsh; 
The wolves yell'd on the cavern'd hill 
Where echo roll'd in thunder still ; 
The jackal's troop, in gather' d cry, 1 © 
Bay'd from afar complainingly, 
With a mix d and mournful sound, 
Like crying babe, and beaten hound 
With sudden wing, and mftted breast, 
The eagle left his rocky nest, 
And mounted nearer to the sun, 
The clouds beneath him scem'd so dun ; 
Their smoke assail' d his startled beak. 
And made him higher soar and shriek*-* 
Thus was Coiiuth lo»t ozai *aaf 



parisina/ 



ADVERTISEMENT. 

Thk following poem is grounded on a circum- 
stance mentioned in Gibbon's "Antiquities of 
Ihe House of Brunswick." I am aware, that 
in modern times the delicacy or fastidiousness 
of the reader may deem such subjects unfit for 
the purposes of poetry. The Greek dramatists, 
and some of the best of our old English writers, 
*-ere of a different opinion: as Alfieri and 
Schiller have also been, more recently, upon 
the Continent. The following extract will ex- 
plain the facts on which the story is founded. 
The name of Azo is substituted for Nicholas, 
as more metrical. 

" Under the reign of Nicholas III. Ferrara 
was polluted with a domestic tragedy. By the 
testimony of an attendant, and his own ob- 
servation, the Marquis of Este discovered the 
incestuous loves of his wife Parisina, and 
Hugo, his bastard son, a beautiful and valiant 
youth. They were beheaded in the castle by 
the sentence of a father and husband, who 
published his shame, and survived their exe- 
cution. He was unfortunate, if they were 
guilty: if they were innocent, he was still more 
unfortunate ; nor is there any possible situation 
in which I can sincerely approve the last act 
of the justice of a parent." — Gibbon's Mis- 
cellaneous Works, vol. iii. p. 470. 



parisina. 



1* is the hour when from the boughs 
The nightingale's high note is heard ; 

It is the hour when lovers' vows 

Seem sweet in every whisper d word 

And gentle winds, and waters near, 

Make music to the lonely ear. 



Each flower the dews have lightly m*, 

And in the sky the stars are met, 

And on the wave is deeper blue, 

And on the leaf a browner hue, 

And in the heaven that clear obscure, 

So softly dark, and darkly pure, 

Which follows the decline of day, 

As twilight melts oeneath the moon awft-v 

II. 
But it is not to list to the waterfall 
That Parisina leaves her hall, 
And it is not to gaze on the heavenly tght 
That the lady walks in the shadow of night 
And if she sits in Este's bower, 
T is not for the sake of its full-blown flower- 
She listens — but not for th« nightingale — 
Though her ear expects as sot a tale. 
There glides a step through the foliage '.hick, 
And her cheek grows pale — and her heart bcati 
quick. [leaves, 

There whispers a voice through the rustling 
And her blush returns, and her bosom heat?*: 
A moment more — and they shall meet — 
T is past — her lover 's at her feet. 

And what unl-.t them is the world be» '••'<*, 
With all its change of time and tide? 
Its living things — its earth and sky — 
Are nothing to their mind and eye. 
And heedless as the dead are thr? 

Of aught around, shove, beneaifl; 
As if ail else had pa?,s'd away, 

They only for each other breathe; 
Their very sighs are full of joy 

So deep, that did it not decay. 
That happy madness would destroy 

The hearts which feel its fie; y sway 
Of guilt, of peril, do they dear 
In that tumultuous tender dream? 
Who that have felt that passion ; power. 
Or paused, or fear'd in such a I vr? 
Or thought how brief such moment*, iaslf 
But yet — they are already pas.: 
Alas! we must awake before 
We know such vision comes r • Trow 



PARISINA. 



77 



With many a lingering look they leave 

The spot of guilty gladness past; 
A ad though they hope, and vow ,they grieve, 

As if that parting were the last. 
The frequent sigh — the long embrace — 

The lip that there would cling for ever, 
While gleams on Parisina's face 

The Heaven she fears will not forgive her 
As if each calmly conscious star 
Beheld her frailty from afar — 
The frequent sigh, the long embrace, 
ifet binds them to their try sting-place. 
Bin* it must come, and they must pint 
In fearful heaviness of heart, 
With all the deep and shuddering chill 
Which fo'lows fast the deeds of ilL 

v. 
And Hugo is gone to his lonely bed, 

To covet there another's bride ; 
But she must lay her conscious head 

A husband's trusting heart beside. 
But fever'd in her sleep sr c seems, 
And red her cheek with troubled dreams. 

And mutters she in her unrest 
A name she dare not breathe by day, 

And clasps her lord unto the breast 
Which pants for one away: 
And he to that embrace awakes, 
And, happy in the thought, mistakes 
That dreaming sigh, and warm caress, 
For such as he was wont to bless ; 
And could in very fondness weep 
O'er her who loves him even in sleep, 

VI. 

He elasp'd her sleeping to his heart, 

And listen'd to each broken word: 
He hears — Why doth Prince Azo start, 

As if the Archangel's voice he heard? 
And well he may — a deeper doom 
Could scarcely thunder o'er his tomb, 
When he shall wake to sleep no more, 
kv<] stand the eternal throne before. 
And well he may — his earthly peac* 
Upon that sound is doom'd to ceas»i 
That sleeping whisper of a name 
Bespeaks her guilt and Azo's shame 
And whose that name? that o'er his pillow 
Sounds fearful as the breaking billow, 
Which rolls the plank upon the shore, 

And dashes on the pointed rock 
The wretch who sinks to rise no more, — 

So came upon his soul the shock. 
Ard whose that name? 'tis Hugo's, — his— 
In sooth he had not deem'd of this ' — 



T is Hugo's, — he, the child of one 
He loved — his own all-evil son — 
The offspring ofhis wayward youth, 
When he betray'd Bianca's truth, 
The maid whose folly could confide 
In him who made her not his bride. 

VII. 

He pluck'd his poniard in its sheath, 

But sheath'd it ere '.he point was b ir»» 
Howe'er unworthy now to breathe, 
He could not slay a thing so fair — 
Ac least, not smiling — sleeping — thei*— 
Nay more: — he did not wake her then. 
But gazed upon ne'- with a glance 
Whichjhad she roused her from her trance 
Had frozen her sense to sleep again-— 
And o'er his brow the burning lamp 
Gleam on the dew-drops big and damp. 
She spake no more — but still she slumber'd— 
While, in his thought, her days are n umber 'd 

VIII. 

And with the morn he sought, and found, 
In many a tale from those around, 
The proof of all he fear'd to know, 
Their present guilt, his future woe; 
The long-conniving damsels seek 

To save themselves, and would transfer 
The guilt — the shame — the doom — to her 
Concealment is no more — they speak 
All circumstance which may compel 
Full credence to the tale they teli: 
And Azo's tortured heart and ear 
Have nothing more to feel c>r hear. 

IX. 

He was noi, one who brook'd delay: 

Within the chamber ofhis state, 
The chief of Este's ancient sway 

Upon his throne of judgment sate; 
His nobles and his guards are there, — 
Before him is the sinful pair ; 
Both young, — and one how passing fair! 
With swordless belt, and fetter 'd hand, 
Oh, Christ ! that thus a son should stand 

Before a father's face! 
Yet thus must Hugo meet his sire, 
And hear the sentence of his ire, 

The tale ofhis disgrace! 
Anr! yet he seems not overcome, 
Although, as yet, his voice be dumb. 

x. 

And still, and pale, and silently 
Did Parisina wait her doom ; 
How changed since last her speaking eve 
Glanced gladness round the glitterir.g 



78 PARISINA. 


Where high-born men were proud to wait — 


Those tits are broken — not by me ; 


Wfcere Beauty watch" d to imitate 


Let that too pass ; — the doom a prepared 


Her gentle voice — her lovely mien— 


Hugo, the priest awaits on thee. 


And gather from ner air and gait 


And then — thy crime's reward' 


The graces of its queen: 


Away ! address thy prayers to Heaven, 


Then, — had her eye in sorrow wept, 


Before its evening stars are met— 


A thousand warriors forth had leapt, 


Learn if thou there canst be forgiven; 


A thousand swords had sheathless shone, 


Its mercy may absolve thee yet. 


And made her quarrel all their own. 


But here, upon the earth beneath, 


Now, — what is she? and what are they? 


There is no spot where thou and I 


Cat? she command, or these obey? 


Together, for an hour, could breathe: 


All silent and unheeding now, 


Farewell ! I will not see thee die — 


With downcast eyes and knitting brow, 


But thou, frail thing! shalt view his head- 


And folded arms, and freezing air, 


Away! I cannot speak the rest: 


And lips that scarce their scorn forbear, 


Go ! woman of the wanton breast 


Her knights and dames, her court — is there: 


Not I, but thou his blood dost shed'. 


And he, the chosen one, whose lance 


Go! if that sight thou canst outlive, 


Had yet been couch'd before her glance, 


And joy thee in the life I give." 


Who — were his arm a moment free — 


XIII. 


Had died or gain'd her liberty; 


And here stern Azo hid his face — 


The minion of his father's bride, — 


For on his brow the swelling veir 


He, too, is fetter'd by her side ; 


Throbb'd as if back upon his brain 


Nor sees her swoln and full eye swim 


The hot blood ebb'd and flow'd again, 


Less for her own despair than him : 


And therefore bow'd he for a space, 


Those lids — o'er which the violet vein 


And pass'd his shaking hind along 


Wandering, leaves a tender stain, 


His eye, to veil it from the throng ; 


Shining through the smoothest white 


While Hugo raised his chained hands, 


That e'er did softest kiss invite — 


And for a brief delay demands 


Now seem'd with hot and livid glow 


Llis father's ear: the silent sire 


To press, not shade, the orbs below: 


Forbids not what his words require. 


Which glance so heavily, and fill, 


" It is not that I dread the death— 


As tear on tear grows gathering still. 


For thou hast seen me by thy side 


XI. 


All redly through the battle ride, 


And he for her had also wept, 


And that not once a useless brand 


But for the eyes that on him gazed : 


Thy slaves have wrested from my hand, 


His sorrow, if he felt, it slept; 


Hath shed more blood in cause of thine. 


Stern and erect his brow was raised. 


Than e'er can stain the axe of mine: 


Whate'er the grief his soul avow'd, 


Thou gav'st, and may'st resume my 


He would n it shrink before the crowd ; 


A gift for which I thank thee not ; 


But yet he dared not look on her: 


Nor are my mother's wrongs forgot, 


Remembrance of the hours that were — 


Her slighted love and ruin'd name, 


His grilt — his love — his present state — 


Her offspring's heritage of shame; 


His father's wrath — all good men's hate — 


But she is in the grave, where he, 


His earthly, his eternal fate — 


Her son, thy rival, soon shall be. 


And hers, — oh hers ! he dared not throw 


Her broken heart — my sever'd head- 


One look upon that deathlike brow! 


Shall witness for thee from the dead 


Else had his rising heart betray *d 


How trusty and how tender were 


Remorse for all the wreck it made. 


Thy youthful love — paternal care. 


XII. 


'T is true that I have done thee wrong- 


And Azo spake : — "But yesterday 


But wrong for wrong : — this deem'd thj 


I gloried in a wife and son; 


bride. 


That dream this morning pass'd away; 


The otl.-. victim of thy pride, 


Ere day declines, I shall have none. 


Thou know st for me was destined long. 


My life must linger on alone; 


Thou sawdt and covetedst her charms — 


Well , — let that pass, — there breathes not one 


And with thy very crime — my birth. 


Who would not do as I have done: 


Thou tauntedst rce — us little worth ; 



PARISINA. 



jy 



A match ignoble for her arms, 
Because, forsooth, I could not claim 
The lawful heirship of thy name, 
Nor sit on Este's lineal throne : 

Yet, were a few short, summers mine, 
My name should more than Este's shine 
With honours all my own. 
I hail a sword — and have a breast 
That should have won as haught 2 a crest 
As ever waved along the line 
Of all these sovereign sires of thine. 
Not always knightly spurs are worn 
The brightest by the better born ; 
And mine have lanced my courser's flank 
Before proud chiefs of princely rank, 
When charging to the cheering cry 
Of ' Este and of Victory !' 
I will not plead the cause of crime, 
Nor sue thee to redeem from time 
A few brief hours or days that must 
At length roll o'er my reckless dust; — 
Such maddening moments as my past, 
They could not, and thev did not, last. 
Albeit my birth and name be base, 
And thy nobility of race 
Disdain'd to deck a thing like mt — ■ 
Yet in my lineaments they trace 
Some features of my father's face, 
And in my spirit — all of thee, 
From thee — this tamelessness of heart — 
From thee — nay, wherefore dostthou start? — 
From thee in all their vigour came 
My arm of strength, my soul of flame — 
Thou didst not give me life alone, 
But all that made me more thine own. 
See what thy guilty love hath done! 
Repaid thee with too like a son ! 
I am no bastard in my soul, 
For that, like thine, abhorr'd control: 
And for my breath, that hasty boon 
Thou gav'st anc will resume so soon, 
[ valued it no n_ ire than thou, 
When rose thy casque above thy brow, 
ind we, all side by side, have striven, 
And o'er the dead our coursers driven: 
The past is nothing — and at last 
The future can but be the past ; 
I'et would I that I then had died; 

For though thou work'dst my mother's ill, 
/.ml made thy own my destined bride, 

I feel thou ar nvy father still ; 
And, harsh as rinds thy hard decree, 
Tis not unjust, although from thee. 
BcgJt in sin, to die in shame, 
My life begun and ends the same: 
A* err'd the sire, so err'd the son, 
A.kI tliou mi-st minish both in one 



My crime seems worse to human titn. 
But God must judge between us too! " 

XIV. 

He ceased — and stood with folded arms 
On which the circling fetters sounded ; 
And not an ear but felt as wounded, 
Of all the chiefs that there were rank'd, 
When those dull chains in nKetingclankd 
Till Parisina's fatal charms 
Again attracted every eye — 
Would she thus hear him doom'd to die! 
She stood, I said, all pale and still, 
The living cause of Hugo's ill : 
Her eyes unmoved, but full and wide, 
Not once had turn'd to either side — 
Nor once did those sweet eyelids close, 
Or shade the glance o'er which they rose, 
But round their orbs of deepest blue 
The circling white dilated grew — 
And there with glassy gaze she stood 
As ice were in her curdled blood ; 
But every now and then a tear 
So large and slowly gather d slid 
From the long dark fringe of that fair lid, 
It was a thing to .see, not hear! 
And those who saw, it did surprise, 
Such drops could fall from human eyes. 
To speak she thought — the imperfect note 
Was choked within her swelling throat, 
Yet seem'd in that low hollow groan 
Her whole heart gushing in the tone. 
It ceased — again she thought to speak, 
Then burst her voice in one long shriek, 
And to the earth she fell like stone 
Or statue from its base o'erthrown, 
More like a thing that ne'er had life, — 
A monument of A/.o's wife, — 
Than her, that living guilty thing, 
Whose every passion was a sting, 
Which urged to guilt, but could not bea 
That guilt's detection and despair. 
But yet she lived — and all too soon 
Recover'd from that death-like swoon — 
But scarce to reason — every sense 
Had been o'erstrung by pangs intense; 
And each frail fibre of her brain 
(As bowstrings, when relay* d by iain, 
The erring arrow launch aside) 
Sent forth her thoughts all wild and wide— 
The past a blank, the future black. 
With glimpses of a dreary track. 
Like lightning on the desert path, 
When midnight storms arc mustering wrath 
She fear'd — she felt that something ill 
Lity on her soul, so deep and chill — 
That there was sin and shame she knew; 
That some one was to die — but who? 



BO 



PARISINA 



She had forgotten: — did she breathe? 

Could this be still the earth beneath, 

The sky above, ami men around ; 

Or were they fiends who now so frowi 'd 

On one. be lore whose eyes each eye 

Till then had smiled in sympathy? 

All was confused and undefined 

To her all-jarr'd and wandering mind; 

A chaos of wild hopes and fears: 

And now in laughter, now in tears, 

But madly still in each extreme, 

She strove with that convulsive dream : 

For so it seem'd on hci to break : 

Oh' vainly mast she strive to wake! 



The Convent bells are ringing, 

But mournfully and slow; 
In the grey square turret swinging, 

With a deep sound, to and fro. 

Heavily to the heart they go ! 
Kark ! the hymn is singing — 

The song for the dead below, 

Or the living who shortly shall be so! 
For a o ^parting being's soul [knoll : 

The death-hymn peals and the hollow bells 
He is near his mortal goal; 
Kneeling at the friar's knee ; 
Sad to hear — and piteous to see — 
Kneeling on the bare cold ground, 
"With the block before and the guards 

around — 
And the headman with his bare arm ready, 
That the blow may be both swift and steady, 
Feels if the axe be sharp and true — 
Since he set its edge anew : 
While tb: urowd in a. speechless circle gather 
to see the Son fall by the doom of the Fa her. 

XVI. 

It is a lovely hour as yet 

Before the summer sun shall set, 

Which rose upon that heavy day, 

And mock'd it with his steadiest ray; 

And his evening beams are shed 

Full on Hugo's fated head, 

As his last confession pouring 

To the monk, his doom deploring 

In penitential holiness, 

He bends to hear his accents bless 

With absolution such as may 

Wipe our mortal stains away. 

That high sun on his head did glisten 

As he there did bow and listen — 

And the rings of chestnut hair 

Curl'd half down his neck so bare; 

But brighter still the beam was thrown 

Upon the axe which near him shone 



With a cleai and ghaslly glitter— 
Oh ! that parting hour was bitter! 
Even the stern stood chill'd with a\v«: 
Dark the crime, and just the law — 
Vet they shudder 'd as they saw. 

XVII. 

The parting prayers are said and over 
Of that false son — and daring lover ! 
His beads and sins are all recounted, 
His hours to their last minute mounted-— 
His mantling cloak before was stripp'd. 
His bright brown locksmust now be clipp'd 
"Pis done — all closely are they shorn — 
The vest which till this moment worn— 
The scarf which Parisina gave — 
Must not adorn him to the grave. 
Even that must now be thrown aside, 
And o'er his eyes the kerchief tied ; 
But no — that last indignity 
Shall ne'er approach his haughty eye. 
All feelings seemingly subdued, 
In deep disdain were half renew'd, 
When headman's hands prepared to bind 
Those eyes which would not brook such biibf. 
As if they dared not Iook on death, 
" No — yours my forfeit blood and breath— 
These hands are chain'd — but let me die 
At least with an unshackled eye — 
Strike:" — and as the word he said, 
Upon the block he bow'd his head ; 
These the last accents Hiiro spoke: 
"Strike:" — and flashing fell the stroke— 
Roll'd the head — and, gushing, sunk 
Back the slain'd and heaving trunk, 
In the dust, which each deep vein 
Slaked with its ensanguined rain: 
His eyes and lips a moment quiver. 
Convulsed and quick — then fix for ever. 
He died as erring man should die, 
Without display, without parade ; 
Meekly had he bow'd and pray'd, 
As not disdaining priestly aid, 
Nor desperate of all hope on high. 
And while before the prior kneeling, 
His heart was wean'd from earthly feeling 
His wrathful sire — his paramour — 
What were they in such an hour? 
No more reproach — no more despair ; 
N o thought but heaven— no word but prayer- 
Save the few which from him broke, 
When, bared to meet the headman's stroke 
He claim' d to die with eyes unbound. 
His sole adieu to those around. 

xvm. 
Shrill as the lips that closed in death, 
Each gazer's bosom held his breath ■ 



PARISINA. 



81 



B t'. yet, Afat, from man to man, 
A cold electric shiver run, 
As down the deadly blow descended 
On him whose life and love thus ended; 
And, with a hushing sound compress'd, 
A sigh shrank back on every breast; 
But no more thrilling noise rose there, 
Beyond the blow that to the block 
Pierced through with forced and sullei 
shock, 
Save one: — what cleaves the silent air 
So madly shrill — so passing wild? 
That, as a mother's o'er her child, 
Done to death by sudden blow, 
To the sky these accents go, 
Like a soul's in endless woe. 
Through Azo's palace-lattice driven, 
That horrid voice ascends to heaven, 
And every eye is turn'd thereon ; 
But sound and sight alike are gone! 
It was a woman's shriek — and ne'er 
In madlier accents rose despair; 
And those who heard it, as it past, 
In mercy wish'd it were the last. 

XIX. 

Hugo is fallen : and, from that hour, 

No more in palace, hall, or bower, 

Was Parisina heard or seen : 

Her name — as if she ne'er had been — 

Was banish'd from each lip and ear, 

Like words of wantonness or fear ; 

And from Prince Azo's voice, by none 

Was mention heard of wife or son; 

No tomb — no memory had they; 

Theirs was un consecrated clay; 

At least the knight's who died that day. 

But Parisina's fate lies hid 

Like dust beneath the coffin lid: 

Whether in convent she abode, 

And won to heaven her dreary road, 

By blighted and remorseful years 

Of scourge, and fast, and sleepless tears ; 

Or if she fell by bowl or steel. 

For that dark love she dared to feci; 

Or if, upon the moment smote, 

She died by tortures less remote ; 

Like him she saw upon the block, 

With heart that shared the headman's shock 

In quicKeh'd brokenness that came, 

In pity, o'er her shatter'd frame, 

None knew — and none can ever know: 

But whatsoe'er its end below, 

Her lite began and closed in woe! 

xx. 
And Azo found another bride, 
And goodly son- ?rew by his side : ^ 



But none so lovely and so brave 

As him who withefd in the grave: 

Or if they were — on his cold eye 

Their growth but glanced unheeded by, 

Or noticed with a smother'd sigh. 

But never tear his cheek descended. 

And never smile his brow unbended ; 

And o'er that fair broad brow were wrougbd 

The intersected lines of thought; 

Those furrows which the burning share 

Of Sorrow ploughs untimely there ; 

Scars of the lacerating mind » 

Which the Soul's war doth leave behind. 

He was past all mirth or woe : 

Nothing more remain'd below 

But sleepless nights and heavy days, 

A mind all dead to scorn or praise, 

A heart -which shunn'd itself — and yet 

That would not yield — nor could forget 

Which, when it least appear 'd to melt, 

Intently thought — intensely felt: 

The deepest ice which ever froze 

Can only o'er the surface close — 

The living stream lies quick below, 

And flows — and cannot cease to flow. 

Still was his seal'd-up bosom haunted 

By thoughts which Nature hath implanted, 

Too deeply rooted thence to vanish, 

Howe'er our stifled fears we banish ; 

When, struggling as they rise to start, 

We check those waters of the heart. 

They are not dried — those tears unshed 

But flow back to the fountain head, 

And resting in their spring more pure, 

For ever in its depth endure, 

Unseen, unwept, but uncongeal'd, 

And cherish'd most where least reveal'd 

With inward starts of feeling left, 

To throb o'er those of life bereft; 

Without the power to rill again 

The desert gap which made his pain ; 

Without the hope to meet them where 

United souls shall gladness share, 

With all the consciousness that he 

Had only pass'd a just decree; 

That they had wrought their doom of ill, 

Yet Azo's age was wretched still. 

The tainted branches of the tree, 

If lopp'd with care, a strength may give 
By which the rest shall bloom and live 
All greenly fresh and wildly free 
But if the lightning, in its wratn, 
The waving boughs with fury scathe, 
The massy trunk the ruin feels, 
And never more a leaf reveal*. 



%\)t $raomr of Cinilon: 



A FABLE. 



SONNET ON CHILLON. 

Etkhnal Spirit of the chainless Mind! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 
The heart which love of thee alone can bind; 
And when thy sons to fetters are consigned — 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless 
gloom, [dom, 

Their country conquers with their martyr- 
And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, 

And thy sad floor an altar — lor 'twas trod, 
Until his veiy steps have left a trace 

Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 
By Bonnivard '.—May none those marks efface! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 



To whom the goodly earth and air 
Are bann'd, and barr'd — forbidden fa:s. 
But this was for my father's faith 
I surl'cr'd chains and courted death; 
That father perish'd at the stake 
For tenets he would not for.sake ; 
And for the same his lineal race 
In darkness found a dwelling-place; 
We were seven — who now are one, 

Six in youth, and one in age, 
Finish'd as they had begun, 

Proud of persecution's rage; 
One in fire, and two in field, 
Their belief with blood have seal'd; 
Dying as their father died, 
For the God their foes denied ; 
Three were in a dungeon cast, 
01' whom this wreck is left the last 



'&& prisoner of (EliiHon. 1 



My hair is grey, but not with years, 
Nor grew it white 
In a single night, 2 
As men's have grown from sudden fears: 
My limbs are bow'd, though not with toil 

But rusted with a viie repose, 
For they have been a dungeon's spoil, 
And mine has been the fate of those 



There are seven pillars of Gothic moidd, 
In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, 
There are seven columns, massy and grej 
Dim with a dull imprison'd ray, 
A sunbeam which hath lost its way, 
And through the crevice and the cleft 
Of the thick wall is fallen and left; 
Creeping o'er the floor so damp, 
Like a marsh's meteor lamp : 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain; 
That iron is a cankering tiling, 

For in these limbs its teeth remahi, 
With marks that will not wear away 
Till I have done with thi> new day 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 



ej 



Which now is painful to these eyes, 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot count them o"er, 
I lost their long and heavy score, 
When my last brother droop'd and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



They chain'd us each to a column stone, 
And we were three — yet, each alone; 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's lace, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight; 
And thus together — yet apart, 
Fctter'd in hand, but pined in heart; 
Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Oi' the pure elements of earth, 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each 
With some new hope or legend old, 
Or song heroically bold; 
But even these at length grew cold. 
Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stor.e, 

A grating sound — not full and free 
As they of yore were wont to be: 
It might be fancy — but to me 
Tney nevei sounded like our own. 



I was the eldest of the three, 

And to uphold and cheer the rest 
I ought to do — and did my best — 
And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father loved 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him — with eyes as blue as heaven, 
For him my soul was sorely moved : 
And truly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest ; 
For he was beautiful as day — 
(When day was beautiful to me 
As to young eagles being free) — - 
A polar day, which will not see 
A sunset till its summer's gone, 

Ete sleepless summer of long light, 
The snow-elad offspring of the sun: 

And thus he was as pure and bright, 
And in his natural spirit gay, 
With tears for nought but others' ills, 
And ilen they flow'd like mountain rills, 
[huHVs he could assuage the woe 
W»u*;h he abhorr'd to view below 



The other was as pure of mind, 
But forin'd to combat with his kind; 
Strong in his frame, and of a maod 
Which 'gainst the world in war had st<"^d 
And perish'd in the foremost rank 

With joy : — but not in chains to pine 
His spirit wither'd with their clank, 

I saw it silently decline — ■ 

And so perchance in sooth did mine 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills, 

Had Ibllow'd there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And letter 'd feet the worst of ills. 

VI. 

Lake Leman lies by Chillon s walls 
A thousand feet in depth below 
Its massy waters meet and flow ; 
Thus much the fathom-line was sent 
From Chillon's snow-white battlement, 3 

Which round about the wave enthrals 
A double dungeon wall and wave 
Have made — and like a living grave 
Behrw the surface of the lake 
The dark vault lies wherein we lay, 
We heard it ripple night and day ; 

Sounding o'er our heads it knock'd; 
And I have felt the winter's spray 
Wash through the bars when winds were hifl 
And wanton in the happy sky ; 

And then the very rock hath rock'd, 

And I have felt it shake, unshock'd, 
Because I could have smiled to see 
The death that wc uld have set me free 



I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined, 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 't was coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunter's faie, 
And for the like had little care : 
The milk drawn from the mountain go*« 
Was changed for water from the moat, 
Our bread was such as captive's tears 
Have moisten d many a thousand year;* 
Since man first pent his fellow men 
Like brutes within an iron den; 
But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heat t or limb ; 
My brother's soul was of that mould 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
r. 2 



*4 THE PRISONER 


OF CHTLLON. 


Had his free breathing been denied 


And not a word of murmur — not 


The range of the steep mountain's side; 


A groan o'er Ins untimely iOt,, — 


But why delay the truth? — he died. 


A little talk of better days, 


I saw, and could not hold his head, 


A little hope my own to raise, 


Nor reach his dying hand — nor dead, — 


For I was sunk in silence — lost 


Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 


In this last loss, of all the most; 


To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 


And then the sighs he would suppress 


He died — and they unlock'd his chain, 


Of fainting nature's feebleness, 


And seoop'd for him a shallow grave 


More slowly drawn, grew less and less 


Even from the cold earth of our cave. 


I listen'd, but I could not hear — 


I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 


I eall'd, tor I was wild with fear; 


His corse in dust whereon the day 


I knew 'twas hopeless, hut my dread 


Might shine — it was a foolish thought, 


Would not be thus admonishofl ; 


But then within my brain it wrought, 


I eall'd, and thought 1 heard a sound— 


That even in death his freebom breast 


I burst my chain with one strong bound 


In such a dungeon could not rest. 


And rush'd to him: — I found him not, 


I might have spared my idle prayer — 


JTonly stirr'd in this black spot, 


They coldly laugh'd — and laid him there 


i" only lived — / only drew 


The flat and turriess earth above 


The accursed breath of dungeon-dew , 


The being we so much did love; 


The last — the sole - the dearest link 


His empty chain above it leant, 


Between me anil the eternal brink, 


Such murdei's fitting monument! 


Which bound me to my failing race, 




Was broken in this fatal place. 


VIII. 


One on the earth, and one beneath — 


But he, the favourite and the flower, 


My brothers — both had ceased to wreathe 


Most cherish'd since his natal hour, 


I took that hand which lay so still, 


His mother's image in fair face, 


Alas ! my own was full as chill ; 


The infant love of all his race, 


I had not strength to stir, or strive, 


His martyr'd lather's dearest thought, 


But felt that I was still alive — 


My latest care, for whom I sought 


A frantic feeling, when we know 


To hoard my life, that his might be 


That what we love shall ne'er be so. 


Less wretched now, and one day free; 


I know not why 


He, too, who yet had held untired 


I could not die, 


A spirit natural or inspired — 


I had no earthly hope — but faith, 


He, too, was struck, and day by day 


And that forbade a selfish death. 


Was wither'd on the stalk away. 




Oh, God! it is a fearful thing 


IX. 


T"> see the human soul take wing 


What next befell me then and there 


Ir. any shape, in any mood: — 


I know not well — I never knew — 


l'^e seen it rushing forth in blood, 


First came the loss of light, and air, 


I ve seen it on the breaking ocean 


And then of darkness too : 


Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, 


I had no thought, no feeling — none — 


I 'vc seen the sick and ghastly bed 


Among the stones I stood a stone, 


Of Sin delirious with its dread: 


And was, scarce conscious what I wist, 


But these were horrors — this was woe 


As shrubless crags wuthin the mist; 


Unmix'd with such — but sure and slow ■ 


For all was blank, and bleak, and grey, 


He faded, and so calm and meek, 


It was not night — it was not day, 


So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 


It was not even the dungeon-light, 


So tearless, yet so tender — kind, 


So hateful to my heavy sight, 


And grieved for those he left behind; 


But vacancy absorbing space, 


With all the while a cheek whose bloom 


And fixedness — without a place; 


Was as a mockery of the tomb, 


There were no stars — no earth — no time- 


Whose tints as gently sunk awaj 


No check — no change — no good — w 


As a departing rainbow's ray — 


crime — 


An ey; »f most transparent light, 


But silence, and a stirless breath 


Thai oat made the dungeon bright, 


Which neither was of life nor death; 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLOtf. 



8* 



A sea of stagnant idleness, 

Blind, boundless, unite, and motionless. 

x. 

A light broke in upon my brain,— 

Tt was the carol of a bird; 
It ceased, and then it came again, 

The sweetest song ear ever heard 
And mine was thankful till my eyes 
Ran over with the glad surprise, 
And they that moment could not see 
I was the mate of misery; 
But then by dull degrees came back 
My senses to their wonted track, 
I saw the dungeon walls and floor 
Close slowly round me as before, 
I saw the glimmer of the sun 
Creeping as it before had done, 
But through the crevice where it came 
That bird was perch' d, as fond and tame, 

And tamer than upon the tree ; 
A lovely bird, with azure wings, 
And song that said a thousand things, 

And seem'd to say them all for me! 
I never saw its like before, 
I ne'er shall see its likeness more: 
It seem'd like me to want a mate, 
But was not half so desolate, 
And it was come to love me when 
None "lived to love me so again, 
And cheering from my dungeon's brink, 
Had brought me back to feel and think. 
I know not if it late were free, 

Or broke its cage to perch on mine, 
But knowing well captivity, 

Sweet bird ' I could not wish for thine ! 
Or if it were, in winged guise, 
A visitant fiv»m Paradise ; [while 

For — Heaven forgive that thought! t * 
Which made me both to weep and smile; 
I sometimes deem'd that it might be 
My brother's soul come down to me ; 
But then at last away it flew, 
And then 'twas mortal — well I knew, 
For he would never thus have flown, 
And left me twice so doubly lone, — 
Lone — as the corse within its shroud, 
Lone — as a solitary cloud, 

A single cloud on a sunny day, 
While all the rest o'' heaven is clear 
A frown upon the atmosphere, 
That hath no business to appear 

When skies are blue, and earth is gay. 



A kind of change came in my fate, 
My keepers grew compassionate; 



I know not what had made them so, 
They were inured to sights of woe, 
But so it was: — my broken chain 
With links unfasten'd did remain, 
And it was liberty to stride 
Along my cell from side to side, 
And up and down, and then athwart 
And tread it over every part ; 
And round the pillars one by one, 
Returning where my walk begun, 
Avoiding only, as I trod, 
My brothers' graves without a sod ; 
For if I thought with heedless tread 
My step profaned their lowly bed, 
My breath came gaspingly and thick, 
And mv crush'd heart Jell blind and s«< * 



I made a footing in the wall, 

It was not therefrom to escape, 
For I had buried one and all, 

Who loved me in a human shape ; 
And the whole earth would henceforth iw 
A wider prison unto me : 
No child — no sire — no kin had I, 
No partner in my misery ; 
I thought of this, and I was glad, 
For thought of them had made me mad ; 
But I was curious to ascend 
To my barr'd windows, and to bend 
Once more, upon the mountains high, 
The quiet of a loving eye. 



I saw them — and they were the same, 
They were not changed like me in frame* 
I saw their thousand years of snow 
On high — their wide long lake below, 
And the blue Rhone in fullest flow ; 
I heard the torrents leap and gush 
O'er channell'd rock and broken bush; 
I saw the white-wall'd distant town, 
And whiter sails go skimming down; 
And then there was a little isle, 4 
Which in my very face did smile, 

The only one in view ; 
A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, 
But in it there were three tall trees, 
And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, 
And by it there were waters flowing, 
And on it there were young flowers growing 

Of gentle breath and hne. 
The fish swam by the castle wall, 
And they seem'd joyous each and ail; 



d6 THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 


The eagle rode the rising blast, 


It was at length the same to me, 


Methought he never (lew so fast 


Fettev'd or fetterless to be, 


As then to me he seem'ci to fly, 


I learn'd to love despair. 


And then new tears came in my eye, 


And thus when they appear'd at last. 


And I felt troubled — and would fain 


And all my bonds aside were cast. 


I had not left my recent chain ; 


These heavy walls to me had grown 


And when I did descend again, 


A hermitage — and all my own ! 


The darkness of my dim abode 


And half I felt as they were come 


Fell on me as a heavy load ; 


To tear me from a second home : 


It was as is a new-dug grave, 


With spiders I had friendship made. 


Closing o'er one we sought to save, — 


And watch'd them in their sullen trade, 


And yet my glance, too much oppress'd, 


Had seen the mice by moonlight play, 


Had almost need of such a rest. 


And why should I feel less than the} ? 




We were all inmates of one place, 


XIV. 


And I, the monarch of each race, 


Tt might be months, or years, or days, 


Had power to kill — yet, strange to tefiC 


1 kept no count — I took no note, 


In quiet we had learn'd to dwell — 


I had no hope my eyes to raise, 


My very chains and 1 grew frienus, 


And clear them of their dreary mote ; 


So much a long communion tends 


At last men came to set me free, 


To make us what we are: — even 1 


I aek'd no> why, and reck'd not u here 


Regain'd my freedom with a tigaJ 



JHanfrcti : 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



'Therft are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, 
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy." 



the 
A 
P* 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Manfred. 

Chamois Hunter. 

Abbot of St. Mauricb. 

Manuel. 

Herman. 

Witch of the Alps 

Ari manes. 

Nemesis 

The Destinies. 

Spirits, &c. 



■ene of the Drama is amongst the Higher 
s — partly in the Castle of Manfred, and 
dy in the Mountains. 



Jttanfrclr. 



ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

Manfred alone. — Scene, a Gothic Gallery — 
Time, Midnight. 
Man. The lamp must, be replenished, but 
even then 
It will not burn so long as I must watch: 
My slumbers — it' I slumber — are not sleep, 
But a continuance of enduring thought, 
Which then I can resist not . in my heart 
fhere is a vigil, and these eyes but close 
£o look within ; and yet I live, and bear 
The aspect and the form 01 breathing men. 
But grief should be the instructor of ihc wise: 



Sorrow is knowledge : they who know the moji 

Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, 
The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life. 
Philosophy and science, and the springs 
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world, 
I have essay 'd, and in my mind there is 
A power to make these subject to itself- — 
But they avail not: I have done men good, 
And I have met with good even among men-^- 
But this avail'd not: I have had my foes, 
And none have baffled, many fallen before me — 
But this avail'd not: — Good or evil, life, 
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings, 
Have been to me as rain unto the sands, 
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread 
And feel the curse to have no natural fear, 
Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or 

wishes, 
Or lurking love of something on the earth — 
Now to my task. — 

Mysterious Agency! 
Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe ! 
Whom I have sought in darkness and in light — 
Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell 
In subtler essence — ye, to whom the tops 
Of mountains inaccessible are haunts, 
And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things — 
I call upon ye by the written charm 
Which g : ves me power upon you Rise! 

appear ! [A pause. 

They come not yet. — Now by the voice of Una 
Who is the first among you — by this sign, 
Whicti makes you tremble — by the claims oi 

him 

Who is undying, — Rise! appear! Appear! 

I A pawn 
If it be so. — Spirits of earth and air, 
Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power, 
Deeper than all y«t urged, a tyrant-spell, 
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn d 
The burning wreck of a demolish d world. 



88 



MANFRED. 



A wandering he!', in the eternal space ; 
By the strono- curse which is upon my soul, 
The thought whicn is witnm me amlarouuume, 
1 do compel ye to my will. — Appear! 

I A star is seen at the darker end of the gal- 
lery : it is stationary ; and a voice is heard 
singing. 

First Spirit. 
Mortal ! to thy bidding bow'd, 
From my mansion in the cloud, 
"Which the breath of twilight builds, 
And the summer's sunset gilds 
With the azure and vermilion, 
Which is mix'd for my pavilion; 
Though thy quest may be forbidden, 
On a star-beam I have ridden; 
To thine adjuration bow'd, 
Mortal — be thy wish avow'd ! 

Voice of the Second Spirit. 
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains 

They crown'd him long ago 
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, 

W r ith a diadem of snow. 
Around his waist are forests braced, 

The Avalanche in his hand ; 
But ere it fall, that thundering ball 

Must pause for my command. 
The Glacier's cold and restless mass 

Moves onward day by day; 
But I am he who bids it pass, 

Or with its ice delay. 
I am the spirit of the place, 

Cotn.i make the mountain bow 
And quiver to his cavern'd bast — 

And what with me wouldst Thou ' 

Voice of the Third Spirit. 
In the blue depth of the waters. 

Where the wave hath no strife, 
Where the wind is a stranger, 

And the sea-snake hath life, 
Where the Mermaid is decking 

Her green hair with shells ; 
Like the storm on the surface 

Came the sound of thy «\>ells; 
O'er my calm Hall of Coral 

The deep echo roll'd — 
To the Spirit of Ocean 

Thy wishes unfold! 

Fourth Spirit. 
Where the slumbering earthquake 

Lies pillow'd on fire, 
And the lakes of bitumen 

Rise boilingly higher ; 



Where the roots of the Andta 

Strike deep in the earth 
As their summits to ncav&i 

Shoot soaringly forth; 
I have quitted my birthplace, • 

Thy bidding to bide — 
Thy spell hath subdued me, 

Thy will be my guide ! 

Fifth Spirit. 

I am the Rider of the wind, 

The Stirrer of the storm ; 
The hurricane I left behind 

Is yet with lightning warm 
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea 

I swept upon the blast : 
The fleet I met sail'd well, and yet 

'T will sink ere night be past. 

Sixth Spirit. 

My dwelling is the shadow of the night, 
Why doth thy magic torture me with iighl 

Seventh Spirit. 

The star which rules thy destiny 
Was ruled, ere earth began, by me 
It was a world as fresh and fair 
As e'er revolved round sun in air; 
Its course was free and regular, 
iipace bosom VI not a lovelier star. 
The hour arrived — and it became 
A wandering mass of shapeless flame, 
A pathless comet, and a curse, 
The menace of the universe ; 
Still rolling on with innate force, 
Without a sphere, without a course, 
A bright deformity on high, 
The monster of the upper sky ! 
And thou ! beneath its influence bora — 
Thou worm ! whom I obey and scorn — 
Forced by a power (which is not thine, 
And lent, thee but to make thee mine) 
For this brief moment to descend, 
Where these weak spirits round thee bend 
And parley with a thing like thet — 
What wouldst thou, Child of Clay ! with 
me? 

The Seven Spirits. 
Earth, ocean, air, night, mountains, winds, thy 
star, 
Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay ' 
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are- — 
What wouldst thou with us, sou of mortal 
— sav? 



MANFRED. 



89 



Mar. . F< trgetfi il 1 . ;ss 

First Spirit. Ofwhat — ofvfiom — and why? 
Man. Of that which is within me; read it 
there— 

Ye know it, and I cannot utter it. 

Si>irit. We can but give thee that which we 
possess : 
Ask of ns subjects, sovereignty, the power 
O'er earth, the whole, or portion, or a sign 
Which shall control the elements, whereof 
We are the dominators, each and all, 
These shall be thine. 

• Man. Oblivion, self-oblivion — 

Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms 
Ve offer so profusely what I ask? 

Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill ; 
But — thou may'st die. 

Man. Will death bestow it on me? 

Spirit. We are immortal, and do notforget; 
We are eternal; and to us the past 
Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? 

Man. Ye mock me — but the power which 
brought ye here [will ! 

Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my 
The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, 
The lightning of my being, is as bright, 
Pervading, and far-darting as your own, 
And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in 

clay! 
Answer, or I will teach you what I am. 

Spirit. We answer as we answer'd; ourreply 
Is even in thine own words. 

Man. Why say ye so ? 

Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be 
as ours, 
We have replied in telling thee, the thing 
Mortals call death hath nought to do with us. 

Man. I then have call'd ye from your realms 
in vain ; 
Ye cannot, 01 ye will not, aid me. 

Spirit. Say; 

What we possess we offer ; it is thine : 
Bethink ere thou dismiss us, ask again — 
Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length 
of days 

Man. Accursed! whathaveltodo with days? 
They are too long already. — Hence — begone! 

Spirit. Yet pause: being here, our will woidd 
do thee service; 
Bethink thee, is there then no other gift 
Which we can make, not worthless in thine eyes? 

Man. No, none ; yet stay — one moment, ere 
we part — 
I would behold ye face to face. I hear 
Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds 
As musi: on the waters; and I see 



The steady aspect c ' a cleai large star : 
But nothing more. Approach me as ye are, 
Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. 
Spirit. We have no forms beyond the ele- 
ments 
Of which we are the mind .and principle: 
But choose a form — in that we will appear. 
Man. I have no choice; there is no form on 
earth 
Hideous or beautiful to me. Let him, 
Who is most powerful of ye, take such aspcc« 
As unto him may seem most fitting — Come ! 
Seventh Spirit. (Appearing in the shape oj 

a beautiful fenuile*figure.) Behold! 
Man. Oh God ! if it be thus, and :hou 
Art not a madness and a i ckery, 
I yet might be most happy. . will clasp thee, 
And we again will be — [The figure vanishet 
My heart is crush'd ! 

[Manfred falls senseless 



(A Voice is heard in the Incantation wluvk 
follows.)'* 

When the moon is on the wave.. 

And the glow-worm in the grass, 
And the meteor on the grave, 

And the wisp on the morass; 
When the falling stars are shooting, 
And the answer'd owls are hooting, 
. And the silent leaves are stiU 
In the shadow of the hill, 
Shall my soul be upon thine, 
With a power and with a sign. 

Though thy slumber may be deep, 

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep; 

There are shades which will not vanish, 

There are thoughts thou canst not banish; 

By a power to thee unknown, 

Thou canst never be alone ; 

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, 

Thou art gather' d in a clo"d; 

And for ever shalt thou dwell 

In the spirit of this spell. 

Though thou seest me not pass by, 

Thou shalt feel me with thine eye 

As a thing that, though unseen, 

Must be near thee, and hath been ; 

And when in that secret dread 

Thou hast turn'd around thy head, 

Thou shalt marvel I am not 

As thy shadow on the spot, 

And the power which thou dost fed 

Shall be what tbon must conceaJ 



90 



MANFRED. 



And a magic voice and verse 

Hath baptized thee with a curse; 

And a spirit of the air 

Hath begirt thee with a snare; 

In the wind there is a voice 

Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 

And to thee shall Night deny 

All the quiet of her sxy ; 

And the day shall nave a sun, 

Which shall make thee wish it done. 

From tny false tears I did distil 

An essence which hath strength to kill; 

From thy own hetirt I then did wring 

The black blood in its blackest spring; 

From thy own smile I snatch' d the snake, 

For there it eoil'd as in a brake ; 

From thy own lip 1 drew the charm 

Which gave all these their chiefest harm; 

In proving every poison known, 

I found the strongest was thine own. 

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, 

By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, 

By that most seeming virtuous eye, 

By thy shut soul's hypocrisy ; 

By the perfection of thine art 

Which pass'd for human thine own heait; 

By thy delight in others' pain, 

And by thy brotherhood of Cain, 

I call upon thee! and compel 

Thyself to be thy proper Hell! 

And on thy head I pour the vial 

Which doth devote thee to this trial; 

Nor to slumber, nor to die, 

Shall be in thy destiny ; 

Though thy death shall still seem near 

To thy wish, but as a fear; 

Lo ! the spell now works around thee, 

And the clankless chain hath bound thee; 

O'er thy heart and brain together 

Hath the word been uass'd — now wither! 



SCENE II. 

The Mountain of the Jungfrau. — Time, Morn- 
ing. — Manfred alone upon the Cliffs. 

Man. The spirits I have raised abandon me — 
The spells which I have studied baffle me — 
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me; 
I lean no more on superhuman aid.. 
It hath no power upon the past, and for 
The future, till the past be gulf'd in davkness 
It is not of my search — My mother Earth ! 



And tlior, fresh breaking Day, and vou, ye 

Moi. mains, 
Why are ye beautiful ? I cannot love ye. 
And thou, the bright eye of the universe, 
That openest over all, and unto all 
Art a delight — thou shin'st not on my heart. 
And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge, 
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath 
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs 
In dizziness of distance ; when a leap, 
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring 
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed 
To rest for ever — wherefore do I pause? 
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge ; 
I see the peril — yet do not recede : 
And my brain reels — and yet my foot is fiiTn 
There is a power upon me which withholds, 
And makes it my fatality to live; 
If it be life to wear within myself 
This barrenness of spirit, and to be 
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased 
To justify my deeds unto myself — 
The last infirmity of evil. Ay, 
Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister, 

\_An eagk po*ni. 
Whose happy flight is highest into heaven, 
Well may' st. thou swoop so near me — 1 should 
be [gone 

Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art 
W T here the eye cannot follow thee ; but thine 
Yet pierces downward, onward, or above, 
With a pervading vision. — Beautiful ! 
How beautiful is all this visible world 
How glorious in its action and itself! 
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, 
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit 
To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make 
A conflict of its elements, and breathe 
The breath of degradation and of pride, 
Contending with low wants and lofty will, 
Till our mortality predominates, 
A d men are — what they Dame not to them 

selves, 
And trust not to each other. Hark ! the note 

[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard 

The natural music of the mountain reed — 
For here the patriarchal days are not 
A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, 
Mix'd with the sweet bells of the sauntering 
herd; [I »ew 

My soul would drink those echoes. — Oh, tha. 
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, 
A living voice", a breathing harmony, 
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying 
With the blest tone which made me! 



MANFRED. 



91 



i *ter frov bclc'K x Chamois Hunter. 

Chamo'+s Hunter. Even so 

This Wiry the chamois leapt: her nimble feet 
Have baffled me: my gains to-day will scarce 
Repay my break-neck travail. — What is here ? 

Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd 
A height which none even of ourmoimtaineers, 
Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb 
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air 
Proud as a t'reeborn peasant's, at this distance — 
I will approach him nearer. 

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be 

thus — [pines, 

Grey-hair'd with anguish 3 , like these blasted 
Wrecks of asingle winter, barkless, branchless, 4 
A blighted trunk upon a cursed root, 
Which but supplies a feeling to decay — 
And to be thus, eternally but thus, 
Having been otherwise ! Now furrow'd o'er 
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by 

years 
And houis — all tortured into ages — hours 
Which I outlive! — Ye toppling crags of ice! 
Ve avalanches, whom a breath draws down 
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush 

me! 
f hear ye momently above, beneath, 
Clash with a frequent conflict 5 ; but ye pass, 
And only fall on things that still would live; 
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut 
And hamlet of the harmless villager. 

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise from up the 

valley ; 
I '11 warn him to descend, or he may chance 
To lose at once his way and life together. 
Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; 

clouds 
Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sul 

phury, 
Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, 
Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, 
Heap d with the damn d like pebbles, — I am 

giddy.6 
C- Hun. I must approach him cautiously; 

if near, 
K sudden step will startle him, and he 
Seems tottering already. 

Ma?u Mountains have fallen, 

I eaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock 
Rocking their Alpine brethren; rilling up 
The ripe green valleys with destruction's splin- 
ters ; 
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash, 
Which crash'd the waters into mist, and made 
Their fountains find another channel — Jhus. 



Thus, in its old age, did Mount Rosenberg— 

Why stood I not beneath it? 

C. Hun. Friend! have a care 

Your next step may be fatal !— for the love 
Of him who made you, stand not on that brink 
Man. {not hearing hint). Such woidd h; VH 

been for me a fitting tomb; 
My bones had then been quiet in their depl i , 
They had not men been strewn upon the rock 
For the wind's pastime — as thus — thus th \ 

shall be- 
in this one plunge. — Farewell, ye opening 

heavens ! 
Look not upon me thus reproachfully — 
You were not meant for me — Earth ! tak« 

these atoms ! 
[As Manfred is in act to spring from 

the cliff, the Chamois Hunter at /res 

and retains him with a sudden grasp 
C. Hun. Hold, madman ! — though aweary 

of thy life, 
Stain not our pure vales with thy guilty blood- 
Away with me 1 will not quit my hold. 

Man. I am most sick at heart — nay, grasp 

me not — 
I am all feebleness — the mountains whirl 
Spinning around me 1 grow blind 

What art thou ? 
C. Hun. I 11 answer that anon. — Away 

with me 

The clouds grow thicker there — now «ean 

on me — 
Place your foot here — here, take this staff, and 

cling [hand, 

A moment to that shrub — now give me your 
And hold fast by my girdle— softly— well — 
The Chalet will be gain'd within an hour — 
Come on, we '11 quickly find a surer footing, 
And something like a pathway, which thj} 

torrent [done- - 

Hath wash'd since winter. — Come, 't i? bravely 

You should have been a hunter.— Follow :ne, 

[As they descend the rocks with l{ffic'Aty 

the scetie closes. 



ACT II. 

SCENE I. 

A Cottage amongst Die Bernese .liva. 

Manfred and the Chamois Hunts*. 

C. Hun. No, no — yet pause — thon iu 
not yet go forth : 
Thy mind and body are alike unfit 



92 



MANFRED. 



To trust each other, for some hours, at least; 
Wnen thou art hetter, I will be thy guide — 
Hut whither? 

Mn n. It imports not: I do know 

My 1 outefull well, and need no further guidance. 
C. Hun. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of 
high lineage — 
One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags 
Look o'er the lower valleys — which of these 
May call thee lord? I only know their portals, 
My way of life leads me but rarely down 
To basis by the huge hearths of those old halls, 
Caiousing with the vassals; but the paths," 
Which step from out our mountains to their 

doors, 
I know from childhood — which of these is thine ? 
Man. No matter. 

C. Hun. Well, sir, pardon me the 

question, 
And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; 
'T is of an ancient vintage many a day 
T has thaw'd my veins amongour glaciers, now 
Let it do thus for thine — Come pledge me fairly. 
Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the 
brim ! 
Will it then never — never sink in the earth? 
C.Hun. What dost thou mean? thy senses 
wander from thee. [warm stream 
Man. I say 't is blood — my blood! the pure 
Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in 

ours 
When we were in our youth, and had one heart, 
And loved each other as we should not love, 
And this was shed: but still it rises up, 
Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from 

heaven, 
Where thou art not — and I shall never be. 
C. Hun. Man of strange words, and some 
half-maddening sin, 
Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er 
Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort 

yet— 
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience — 
Man. Patience and patience! Hence — that 
word was made 
For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey ; 
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine — 
I am not of thine order. 

C. Hun. Thanks to heaven . 

f would not be of thine for the free fame 
Of William Tell ; but whatsoe'er thine ill, 
[t must be borne, and these wild starts are 
useless. live. 

Man. Do I not bear it?— Look on me— 
C- H"*n. Thisis convulsion, and no healthful 
life.. 



Man. 1 tell tree, man! I have, lived muaj 

years, 
Many long years, but they are nothing now 
To those which I must number: ages — ages — 
Space and eternity — and consciousness. 
With the fierce thirst of death — and still un- 
slaked ! [age 

C. Hun. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle 
Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far. 

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend 
on time? 
Tt doth ; but actions are our epochs: mine 
Have made my days and nights imperishable, 
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore. 
Innumerable atoms; and one desert, 
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break, 
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks, 
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness. 

C Hun. Alas! he's mad — but yet I must 
not leave him. [I see 

Man. I would I were — for then the things 
Would be but a distemper'd dream. 

C Hun. What is it 

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon? 

Man. Myself, and thee — a peasant of tlw 
Alps — 
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home, 
And spirit patient, pious, proud, and free; 
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts; 
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy 

toils, 
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes 
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave, 
With cross and garland over its green turf, 
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaph ; 
This do I see — and then I look within — 
It matters not — my soul was scorch'd already ! 

C- Hun. And would'st thou then exchange 
thy lot for mine? 

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee 
nor exchange 
My lot with living being: I can bear — 
However wretchedly, 't is still to bear — 
In life what others could not brook to dream. 
But perish in their slumber. 

C- Hun. And with this — 

This cautious feeling for another's pain, 
Canst thou be black with evil? — say not so. 
Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaU'a 

revenge 
Upon his enemies? 

Man. Oh! no. no, no! [me — 

My injuries came down on those who loved 
On diose whom I best loved: I nevtr quell' c 
An enemy, save in my just defence — 
But mv embrace was fatal ! 



MANFRED. 



93 



C.Hun Heaven give thee rest! 

And penitene* restore thee to thyself; 
My prayers shall be for thee. 

Man. I need them not, 

Rat can endure thy pity. I depart — 
T is time — farewell! — Here "s gold, and thanks 

for thee — 
No words — it is thy due. — Follow me not — 
I know my path — the mountain peril 's past : — 
And once again, I charge thee, foilow not ! 

[Exit Manfred. 



SCENE II. 

A lower Valley in the Alps. — A Cataract. 

Enter Manfred 
Ft is not noon — the sunbow's rays 7 still arch 
The torrent with the many hues of heaven, 
And roll the sheeted silver's waving column 
O'er the crag's headlong perpendicular, 
And fling its lines of foaming light along, 
And to and fro, like the pale courser's tail, 
The Giant steed, to be bestrode by Death, 
As told in the Apocalypse 8 . No eyes 
But mine now drink this sight of loveliness; 
' should be sole in this sweet solitude, 
Knd with the Spirit of the place divide 
The homage of these waters. — I will call her. 
[Manfred takes some of the water into 
the }>ahu of his hand, and flings it in 
the air, muttering the adjuration. After 
a pause, the Witch of the Alps 
rises beneath the arch of the sunbow 
of the torrent. 
Beautiful Spirit! with thy hair of light, 
And dazzling eyes of glory, in whose form 
The channs of earth's least mortal daughters 

grow 
To an unearthly stature, in an essence 
Of purer elements; while the hues of youth, — 
Carnation'd like a sleeping infant's cheek, 
Rock'd by the beating of her mother's heart, 
Or the rose tints, which summer's twilight leaves 
Upon the lo!'ty glacier's virgin snow, 
The blush of earth, embracing with her heaven, — 
Tinge thy celestial aspect, and make tame 
The beauties of the sunbow which bends o'er 

thee. 
Beautiful Spirit! in thy calm clear brow, 
Wherein is glass'd serenity of soul, 
Which of itself shows immortality, 
I lead that thou wilt pardon to a Son 
Of Earth, whom the abstruser powers permit 
At times to commune with them — if that he 



Avail him tfhis spells— to call thee thus, 
And gaze on thee a moment 

Witch. Son of Earth! 

I know thee, and the powers which give thee 

power; 
I know thee for a man of many thoughts, 
And deeds of good and ill, extreme in both, 
Fatal and fated in thy sufferings. 
I have expected this — what would'st thou with 
me? [further 

Man. To look upon thy beauty — nothing 
The face of the earth hath madden'd me, and \ 
Take refuge in her mysteries, and pierce 
To the abodes of those who govern her — 
But they can nothing aid me. I have sought 
From them what they could not bestow, and now 
I search no further. 

Witch. What could be the quest 

Which is not in the powerof the most powerful. 
The rulers of the invisible? 

Man. A boon ; 

But why should I repeat it? 'twere in vain. 

Witch. I know not that; let thy lips utter it. 

Man. Well, though it torture me, 'tis but 
the same; [upwards 

My pang shall find a voice. From my youtn 
My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, 
Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; 
The thirst ot their ambition was not mine, 
The aim of their existence was not mine: 
My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers, 
Made me a stranger; though I wore the form, 
I had no sympathy with breathing flesh, 
Nor midst the creatures of clay that girded me 

Was there but one who- but. of her anon. 

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men, 
I held but slight communion ; but instead. 
My joy was in the Wilderness, to breathe . 
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top, 
Where the birds dare not build, nor insect's 

wing 
Flit o'er the herbless granite ; or to plunge 
Into the torrent, and to roll along 
On the swift whirl of the new breaking wave 
Of river-stream, or ocean, in their flow 
Tn these my early strength exulted; or 
To follow through the night the moving moon 
The stars and their development; or catch 
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim. 
Or to look, Hst'ning, on the scatter'd leaves, 
While Autumn winds were at their evening 

song. 
These were my pastimes, and to be alone ; 
For if the beings, of whom I was one, — 
Hating to be so, — eross'd me in my path 
I felt myself degraded back to them, 



94 



MANFRED. 



And was ah flay agvan. And then I dived, 
In *i\y lone wanderings, to the caves of death, 
Search* ng its cause in its effect; and drew 
From wither'd bones, and skulls, and heap'd 

up dust, 
Conclusions most forbidden. Then I pass'd 
The nights of years in sciences untaught. 
Save in the old time and with time and toil, 
And terrible ordeal, and such penance 
As in itself hath power upon the air, 
And spirits that do compass air and earth, 
Space, and the peopled infinite, I made 
Mine eyes familiar with Eternity, 
Such as, before me, did the Magi, and 
He who from out their fountain dwellings 

raised 
Eros and Anteros 9 , at Gadara, 
As T do thee; — and with my knowledge grew 
The thirst of knowledge, and the power and 

j°y 

Of this most bright intelligence, until, 

Witch. Proceed. 

Man. Oh ! I but thus prolong'd my 
words, 
Boasting these idle attributes, because 
As I approach the core of my hearts grief — 
But to my task. I have not named to thee 
Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being, 
With whom I wore the chain of human ties ; 
If I had such, they seem'd not such to me — 
Yet there was one 

Witch. Spare not thyself— proceed. 

Man. She was like me in lineaments — her 
eyes, 
Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone 
Even of her voice, they said were like to mine ; 
But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty: 
She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, 
The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind 
To comprehend the universe : nor these 
Alone, butwith them gentler powers than mine, 
Pity, and smiles, and tears — which I had not; 
And tenderness — but that I had for her; 
Humility — and that I never had. 
Her faults were mine — her virtues were her 

own — 
T loved her, and destroy 'd her! 

Witch. With thy hand ? 

Man. Not with my hand, but heart — which 
broke her heart — 
It gazed on mine, and wither'd. I have shed 
Blood, but not hers — and yet her blood was 

shed — 
i <hw — and could not stanch it 

U'tch. And for this— 

A tiei'tg of the race thou dost despise, 



The order which thine own vould ri >e above, 
Mingling with us and ours, thou dost forego 
The gifts of our great knowledge,and shrink' s1 

back 
To recreant mortality Away ! 

Man. Daughter of Air! I tell thee, since 
that hour — 
But words are breath — look on me in my sleep, 
Orwatchmywatchings — Come and sit by me 
My solitude is solitude nc more, 
But peopled with the Furies; — 1 lave gnash'd 
My teeth in darkness till returning mom, 
Then cursed myself till sunset; — I have pray'd 
For madness as a blessing — 'tis denied me. 
I have affronted death — but in the war 
Of elements the waters shrunk from me, 
And fatal things pass'd harmless — the cold hand 
Of an all-pitiless demon held me back, 
Back by a single hair, which would not break 
In fantasy, imagination, all 
The affluence of my soul — which one day was 
A Croesus in creation — I plunged deep, 
But, like an ebbing wave, it dash'd me back 
Into the gulf of my unfa'hom'd thought. 
I plunged amidst mankind — Forgetfulness 
I sought in all, save where 'tis to be found, 
And that I have to learn — my sciences, 
My long pursued and superhuman art, 
Is mortal h<=re — I dwell in my despair — 
And live — and live for ever. 

Witch. It may be 

That can aid thee. 

Man. To do this thy power 

Must wake the dead, or lay me low with them. 
Do so — in any shape — in any hour — 
With any torture — so it be the last. [thou 

Witch. That is not in my province ; but if 
Wilt swear obedience to rny will, and do 
My bidding, it may help thee to thy wishes. 

Man. I will not swear — Obey! and whom! 
the spirits 
Whose presence I command, and be theslavi 
Of those who served me — Never ! 

Witch. Is this all? 

Has thou no gentler answer? — Yet bethinl 

thee, 
And pause ere thou rejectest. 

Man. I have said it 

Witch. Enough! — I may retire then — say 

Man. Betire 

[The Witch d'sappean 

Man. {alone). We are the fools of time an« 
terror: Days 
Steal on us and steal from us ; yet we live, 
Loathing our life, and dreading sti'l to die 
In all the days of this v'etested yoki — 



MANFRED. 



95 



This vital weight upon the straggling neait, 
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with 

pain, 
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 
In all the days of past and future, for 
In life there is no present, we can number 
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul 
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back 
\s from a stream in winter, though the chill 
Be but a moment's. I have one resource 
.Slill in my science — I can call the dead, 
And ask them what it is we dread to be: 
The sternest answer ran but be the Grave, 
And that is nothing — if they answer not — 
The buried Prophet answ.M-'d to the Hag 
Of Sudor; and the Spartan Monarch drew 
From the Byzantine maid's unsleeping spirit 
An answer and his destiny — he slev 
That which he loved, unknowing wha. he slew 
And died unpardon'd — though he call'dinaid. 
The Phyxian Jove, and in Phigalia roused 
The Arcadian Evocators to compel 
The indignant shadow to depose her wrath, 
Or fix her term of vengeance — she replied 
In words of dubious import, but 1'ulrill'd. 10 
If I had never lived, that which I love 
Had still been living; had I never loved, 
That which I love would still be beautiful- 
Happy and giving happiness. What is she? 
What is she now ? — a sufferer for my sins — 
A thing I dare not think upon — or nothing. 
Within few hours I shall not call in vain — 
Vet in this hour I dread the thing I dare : 
Until this hour I never shrunk to gaze 
On spirit, good or evil — now I tremble, 
And feel a strange cold thaw upon my heart. 
But I can act even what I most abhor, 
And champion human fears. — The night ap- 
proaches. [ Exit. 



SCENE III. 

The Summit of the Jungfrau Mountain. 

Enter First Destiny. 
Themoon is rising broad, and round, and bright; 
And here on snows, where never human foot 
Of common mortal trod, we nightly tread, 
And leave no traces ; o'er the savage sea, 
The glassy ocean of the mountain ice, 
We skim its rugged breakers, which put on 
The aspect of a tumbling tempest's loam, 

frozen in a moment" — a dead whirlpool's 
image: 

4nd this most steep fantastic pinnacle, 



The fretwork of some earthquake —where the 

clouds 
Pause to repose themselves in passing by — 
Is sacred to our revels, or our vigils ; 
Here do I wait my sisters, on our way 
To the Hall of Arimanes, for to-night 
Is our great festival — 'tis strange they coint 

not. 

A Voice -without, singing. 

The Captive Usurper, 

Hmf d down from the throne, 

Lay buried in torpor, 
Forgotten and lone ; 

I broke through his slumbers, 
I shiver'd his chain, 

I leagued him with numbers — 

He's Tyrant again! [care, 

With the blood of a million he'll answer my 
With a nation's destruction — his flight and de- 
spair. 

Second Voice, without. 

The ship sail'd on, the ship sail'd fast, 
But I left not a sail, and I left not a mast; 
There is not a plank of the hull or the deck, 
And there is not a wretch to lament o'er hi* 
wreck ; [hair, 

.Save one, whom I held, as he swam, by tin 
"And he was a subject well worthy my caie; 
A traitor on land, and a pirate at sea — 
But I saved him to wreak further havoc for me, 

First Destiny, antwering. 

The city lies sleeping; 

The morn, to deplore it, 
May dawn on it weeping* 

Sullenly, slowly, 
The black plague flew o'er it-— 

Thousands lie lowly; 
Tens of thousands shall perish 

The living shall fly from 
The sick they shall cherish ; 

But nothing can vanquish 
The touch that they die from. 

Sorrow and anguish, 
And evil and dread, 

Envelope a nation — 
The blest are the dead, 
Who see not the sight 

Of their own desolation — 
This work of a night — 
This wreck of a realm — this deed of my doir 
For ag€« I 've done, and shall stil.' be rencv 



96 



MANFRED. 



Enter the Second ana Third Destinies. 

The Three 

Our hands contain the hearts of men, 
Our footsteps are their grq,ves; 

We only give to take again 
The spirits of our slaves ! 

First Des. Welcome! — Where's Nemesis? 
Sizmd Des. At some great work ; 

But what I know not, for my hands were full. 
Third Des. Behold she cometh. 

Enter Nemesis. 

First Des. Say, where hast thou been? 

My sisters and thyself are slow to-night. 

Nem. I was detain'd repairing shatter'd 
thrones, 
Marrying fools, restoring dynasties, 
Avenging men upon their enemies, 
And making them repent their own revenge ; 
Goading the wise to madness; from the dull 
Shaping out oracles to rule the world 
Afresh, for they were waxing out of date, 
And mortals dared to ponder for themselves, 
To weigh kings in the balance, and to speak 
Of freedom, the forbidden fruit. — Away! 
We have outstay'd the hour — mount we our 
clouds! \ Exeunt. 



SCENE IV. 

The Halt of Arimanes — Arimane* on his 
Throne, a (Jlohe of Fire, surrounded by the 
Sptrus. 

Hymn of the Spirits. 

H^iito our Master! — Princeof Earth and Air! 

Who walks the clouds and waters — in his 
hand 
The sceptre of the elements, which tear 

Themselves to chaos a. nis hi^h command! 
He breatheth — and a tempest shakes the sea; 

He speaketh — and the clouds reply in 
thunder; 
Fie gazeth — from his glance the sunbeams flee ; 

He moveth — earthquakes rend the world 
asunder. 
Beneath his footsteps the volcanoes rise ; 

His shadow is the Pestilence; his path 
The comets herald through the crackling skies ; 

And planets turn to ashes at his wrath. 
To him War offers daily sacrifice; 

To him Death pays his tribute; Life is his 



With all its infinite of agonies— 
And his the spirit of whateve? . 



Enter the Destinies and Nemesis. 

First Des Glory to Arimar es! on the ear; \ 
His power increaseth — both my sisters did 
His bidding, nor did I neglect my duty ! 

Second Des. Glory to Arimanes! we who bow 
The necks of men, bow down before his thron.? ! 

Third Des. Glory to Arimanes! we awaii 
His nod ! 

Nem. Sovereign of Sovereigns! we arc thine, 
And all that liveth, more or less, is ours, 
And most things wholly so; still to increas** 
Our power, increasing thine, demands our car* 
And we are vigilant — Thy late commands 
Have been fulfill d to the utmost. 



Enter Manfred. 

A Spirit. What is here ? 

A mortal ! — Thou most rash and fatal wretch, 
Bow down and worship ! 

Second Spirit. I do know the man — 

A Magi an of great power, and fear nl skill ! 
Third Spirit. Bow down and worship, 
slave ! — What, know'st thou not 
Thine and our Sovereign ? — Tremble, and obey 
AU the Spirits. Prostrate thyself, and thy 
condemned clay, 
Child of the Earth ! or dread the worst. 

Man. I know it : 

And yet ye see I kneel not. 

Fourth Spirit. ' Twill be taught thee. 

Man. "f is taught already ; — many a night 
on the earth, 
On the bare ground, have I bow'd down my 
face, [known 

A nd strew'd my head with ashes ; I ha\% 
The fulness of humiliation, for 
I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt 
To my own desolation. 

Fifth Spirit. Dost thou dare 

Re use to Arimanes on his throne 
What the whole earth accords, beholding act 
The terror of his Glory ? — Crouch ! I say. 
Man. Bid him bow down to that which » 
above him, 
The overruling Infinite — the Maker 
Who made him not for worship — let hin 

kneel, 
And we will kneel together. 

The Spirits. Crush the wore* ' 

Tear 1 im in pieces ! — 



MANFRED. 



97 



First Des. Hence! Avaunt! — he's mine, 
Prince of the Powers invisible ! This man 
Is of no common order, as his port 
Ami presence here denote ; his sufferings 
Have been of an immortal nature, like [will, 
Our own ; his knowledge, and his powers and 
As far as is compatible with clay, [such 

Which clogs the ethereal essence, have been 
As clay hath seldom borne; his aspirations 
Have been beyond the dwellers of the earth, 
And they have only taughthim what we know — 
That knowledge is not happiness, and science 
But an exchange of ignorance for that 
Which is another kind of ignorance. 
This is not all — the passions, attributes 
Of earth and heaven, from which no power, 

nor being, 
Nor breath from the worm upwards is exempt, 
Have pierced his heart ; and in their conse- 
quence 
Made him a thing, which I, who pity not, 
Yet pardon those who pity. He is mine, 
And thine, it may be — be it so, or not, 
No other Spirit in this region hath 
A soul like his — or power upon his soul. 

Nem. What doth he here then? 

First Des. Let him answer that. 

Man. Ye know what I have known; and 
without power 
I could not be amongst ye : but there are 
Powers deeper still beyond — I come in quest 
Of such, to answer unto what I seek. 

Nem. What would'st thou ? 

Man. Thou canst not reply to me. 

Call up the dead — my question is for them. 

Nem. Great Arimanes. doth thy will avouch 
The wishes of this mortal? 

Ari. Yea. 

Nem. Whom would'st thou 

Uncharnel? 

Man. One without a tomb — call up 
Astarte. 

Nemesis. 
Shadow ! or Spirit! 

Whatever thou art, 
Which still doth inherit 

The whole or a part 
Of the form of thy birth, 

Of the mould of thy clay, 
Which return'd to the earth, 

Re-appear to the day ! 
Bear what thou boi est, 

The heart and the form, 
And the aspect thou wores% 

Redeem from the worm. 



Appear ! — Appear! — Appear ! 
Who sent (lice there requires thee here! 
[ThePhantom o/Astartk rites andetands 
in lite midst. 
Man. Can this be death? there's blooro 
upon her cheel '; 
But now I see it is no living hue 
But a strange hectic — like the unnatural red 
Which Autumn plants upon the perish'd leaf 
It is the same! Oh, God! that I should drea- 1 
To look upon the same — Astarte ! — No. 
I cannot speak to her — but bid her sp~ak — 
Forgive me or condemn me. 

Nemesis. 

By the power which hath broken 
The grave which enthrall' d thee, 

Speak to him who hath spoken, 
Or those who have eall'd thee ! 

Man. She is silent., 

And in that silence I am more than answej'd. 

Nem. My power extends no further. Princa 
of air! 
It rests with thee alone — command her voioe. 

Ari. Spirit — obey this sceptre! 

Nem. Silent still ! 

She is not of our order, but belongs 
To the other powers. Mortal ! thy quest is vain, 
And we are baffled also. 

Man. Hear me, hear me — 

Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
I have so much endured — so much endure — 
Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee 

more 
Than I am changed for thee. Thoulovedst me 
Too much, as I loved thee : we were not made 
To torture thus each other, though it were 
The deadliest sin to love as we have loved. 
Say that thou loath' st me not — that I do bear 
This punishment for both — that thou wilt be 
One of the blessed — and that I shall die; 
For hitherto all hateful things conspire 
To bind me in existence — in a life 
Which makes me shrink from immortality — 
A future like the past. I cannot re^t. 
I know not what I ask, nor what I seek : 
I feel but what thou art — and what I am , 
And I would hear yet once before I perish 
The voice which was my music- -Speak to me 
For I have eall'd on thee in the still night, 
Startled the slumbering birds from the husli'H 
boughs, [cavrs 

And woke the mountain wolves, and made the 
Acquainted with thy vainly echoed name. 



98 



MANFRED, 



Which answer' d me — many things answer d 

me — 
Spirits and men — but thou wert silent all. 
Vet speak to me! I have outwatch'd the stars, 
And gazed o'er heaven in vain in search of thee. 
Speak to me! I have wander' d o'er the earth, 
\ud never found thy likeness — Speak to me! 
Look on the fiends around — they feel for me: 
I fear them not, and feel for thee alone — 
Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; — but say — 
[reck not what — but let me hear thee once — 
This once — once more ! 

Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! 

Man. Say on, say on — 

» live but in the sound — it is thy voice! 

i'han. Manfred! To-morrow ends thine 
earthly ills. 
Farev* ell ! 

Man. Yet one word more — am I forgiven? 

Phan. Farewell ! 

Man. Say, shall we meet again ? 

Phan. Farewell! * [me. 

Man. One word for mercy ! Say, thoulovest 

Phan. Manfred! 

[The Spirit of Astarte disappears.™ 

Nem. She 's gone, and will not be 

recall'd; 
Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. 

ASpirit. He is convulsed — Thisistobea 
mortal, 
And seek the things beyond mortality. 

Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth him- 
self, and makes 
His torture tributary to his will. 
Had he been one of us, he would have made 
An awful spirit. 

Nem. Hast thou further question 

Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers? 

Man. None. 

Nem. Then for a time farewell. 

Ma i. We meet then! Where? On the earth? — 
Even as thou wilt: and for the grace accorded 
1 now depart a debtor. Fare ye well! 

[Exit Manfred. 
{Scene closes) 



ACT III. 

SCENE I. 

A Hall in the Castle of Manfred. 

Manfked and Herman. 

Man. What is the hour? 
Her. l wants but one till sunset, 

Aud promises a lovely twilight. 



Man. Say, 

Are all things so disposed of in the tower 
As I directed? 

Her. All, my lord, are taady: 

Here is the key and casket. 

Man. It is well: 

Thou may \st retire. [Exit Herman. 

Man. {alone). There is a calm upon me- 
Inexplicable stillness ! which till now 
Did not belong to what I knew of life. 
If that I did not know ph losophy 
To be of all our vanities the motliest, 
The merest word that ever fool'd the ear 
From out the schoolman'sjargon, I should deem 
The golden secret, the sought " Kalon," found, 
And seated in my soul. It will not last, 
But it is well to have known it, though but once 
It hath enlarged my thoughts with a new sense 
And I withii. *ny tablets would note clown 
That there is such a feeling. Who is there.* 

Re-enter Herman. 
Her. My lord, the abbotof StMaurice cra^ei 

To greet your presence. 

Enter the Abbot of St. Maurice. 

Abbot. Peace be with Count Mtanfred 

Man. Thanks, holy father ! welcome to these 
walls ; 
Thy presenile honours them, and blesseth those 
W 7 ho dwell within them. 

Abbot. Would it were so, Count ! — 

But I would fain confer with thee alone. 

Man. Herman, retire. — What would my 
reverend guest? 

Abbot. Thus, without prelude: — Age and 
zeal, my office, 
And good intent, must plead my privilege ; 
Our near, though not acquainted neighbour- 
hood, 
May also be my herald. Rumours strange, 
And of unholy nature, are abroad, 
And busy with thy name; a noble name 
For centuries: may he who bears it now 
Transmit it unimpair'd ! 

Man. Proceed, — I listen. 

Abbot. Tis said thou holdest converse nftfe 
the things 
Which are forbidden to the search of man ; 
That with the dwellers of the dark abodes, 
The many evil and unheavenly spirits 
Which walk the valley of the shade of death 
Thou communest. I know that with mankind, 
Thy fellows in creation, "thou dost rarely 
Exchange thy thoughts, and that thy sol'iuilf 
Is as an anchorite's were it. but hoiv 



MANFRED. 



99 



Man. And what are they who do avouch 

these things? 
Abbot. My pious brethren — the Beared pea- 
santry — 
Even thy own vassals — \vb; do look on thee 
With most unquiet eyes. Thy life's in peril. 
Man. Take it. 

Abbot. I come to save, and not destroy— 
I would not pry into thy secret soul ; 
But it' these things be sooth, there still is time 
For penitence and pity: reconcile thee 
With the true church, and through the church 
to heaven. [e'er 

Man. I hear thee. This is my reply : what- 
I may have been, or am, doth rest between 
Heaven and myself. — I shall not choose a 

mortal 
To be my mediator. Have I sinn'd 
Against your ordinances? prove and punish! 
Abbot. My son! I did not speak of punish- 
ment, 
But penitence and pardon; — with thyself 
The choice of such remains — and for the last, 
Our institutions and our strong belief [sin 
Have given me power to smooth the path from 
To higher hope and better thoughts ; the first 
[ leave to heaven, — " Vengeance is mine 

alone ! " 
So saith the Lord, and with all humbleness 
His servant echoes back the awful word. 
Man. Old man ! there is no power in holy 
men, 
Nor charm in prayer — nor purifying form 
Of penitence — nor outward look — nor fast — 
Nor agony — nor, greater than all these, 
The innate tortures of that deep despair, 
Which is remorse without the fear of hell, 
Hut all in all sufficient to itself 
Woidd make a hell of heaven — car. exorcise 
From out the unbounded spirit, the quick sense 
Of its own sins, wrongs, siifferance.and revenge 
Upon itself: there is no future pang 
Can deal that justice on the self-condemn'd 
He deals on his own soul. 

Abbot. All this is well; 

For this will pass away, and be succeeded 
By an auspicious hope, which shall look up 
With calm assurance to that blessed place, 
Which all who seek may win, whatever be 
Their earthly errors, so they be atoned : 
And the commencement of atonement is 
The sense of >'ts necessity. — Say on — 
And all our chiu ch can reach thee shall be 

ta virht ; 
4nd all v e can absolve thee shall be pax- 
don'd. 



Man. When Rome's sixth emperor*** <t»m 
near his last. 
The victim of a self-inflicted wound, 
To shun the torments of a public death 
From senates once his slaves, a certain soldier. 
With show of loyal pity, would have stanch d 
The gushing throat, with his officious robe; 
The dying Roman thrust him hack, and said — 
Some empire stili in his expiring glance, 
" It is too late — is this fidelity?" 

Abbot. And w hat jf this ? 

Man. I answer with the Roman— 

" It is too late ! " 

Abbot. It never can be so, 

To reconcile thyself with thy own soul, 
Anil thy own soul with heaven. Hast thou no 

hope ? 

T is strange — even those who do despair above, 

Yet shape themselves some fantasy on earth. 

To which frail twig they cling, like drowning 

men. [visions 

Man. Ay — father! I have had those earthly 
And noble aspirations in my youth, 
To make my ow.i the mind of other men, 
The enlightener of nations ; and to rise 
I knew not whither — it might be to fall; 
But fall, even as.the mountain-cataract. 
Which having leapt from its more dazzling 

height, 
Even in the foaming strength of its abvss, 
(Which casts up misty columns that become 
Clouds raining from the re-ascended skier,) 
Lies low but mighty still. — But this is past, 
My thoughts mistook themselves. 

Abbot. And wherefore so? 

Man. I could not tame my nature down , 
for he 
Must serve who fain would sway — and soothn 

— and sue — 
And watch all time — and pry into all place — 
And be a living lie — who would become 
A mighty thing amongst the mean, and such 
The mass are; I disdain' d to mingle with 
A herd, though to be leader — and of wolves. 
The lion is alone, and so am I. 

Abbot. And why not live and act with other 
men? [life; 

Man. Because my nature was averse from 
And yet not cruel ; for I would not make, 
But find a desolation: — like the wind, 
Tl e red-hot breath of the most lone simoom, 
Wi.ich dwells but in the desert, and sweeps o'ei 
The barren sands which bear no shrubs to blast 
And revels o'er their wild and arid waves, 
And seeketh not, so that it is not sought, 
But being met is deadly ; such hath Wen 
it 2 



v* 



100 



MANFRED 



The course Ot my existence; but there came 
Things in my path which are no more. 

Abbot. Alas ! 

I 'gin to fear that thou art past all aid 
From me and from my calling ; yet so young, 
I still would 

Man. Look on me ! there is an order 
Of mortals on the earth, who do hecome 
Old in their youth, and die ere middle age, 
Without the violence of warlike death ; 
Some perishing of pleasure — some of study — 
Same worn with toil — some of mere weariness — 
Some of disease — and some insanity — l4 
And some of wither'd, or of broken hearts; 
For this last is a malady which slays 
More than are number'd in the lists of Fate, 
Taking all shapes, and bearing many names. 
Look upon me ! for even of all these things 
Have I partaken ; and of all these things, 
One were enough ; then wonder not that I 
Am what I am, but that I ever was, 
Or having been, that I am still on earth. 

Abbot. Yet, hear me still — 

Man. Old man ! I do respect 

Thine order, and revere thine years; I deem 
Thy purpose pious, but it is in vain: 
Think me not churlish ; I would spare thyself, 
Far more than me, in shunning at this time 
Ail further colloquy — and so — farewell. 15 

[Exit Manfred. 

Abbot. This should have been a nobler crea- 
ture; 16 he 
Hath all the energy which would have made 
A goodly frame of glorious elements, 
H»d they been wisely mingled; as it is, 
si 13 an awiui chaos — light and darkness — 
And mind and dust — and passions and pure 

thoughts, 
Mix'd and contending without end or order, 
All dormant or destructive; he will perish, 
And yet he must not ; I will try once more 
For such are worth redemption ; and my duty 
I* to dare all things for a righteous end. 
I'll follow him — but cautiously, though surely. 
[Exit Abbot. 



8CENE II. 

Another Chamber. 

Manfred ana merman. 
Utr. My lord, you bade me wail on you at 
sunset : 
H« sinks behind the mountai!** 



Man. Doth he so 

I will look on him. 
[Manfred advances to theWindoto of the HaU 

Glorious Orb ! the idol 
Of early nature, and the vigorous race 
Of undiseased mankind, the giant sons 17 
Of the embrace of angels, with a sex 
More beautiful than they, which did draw dow 
The erring spHts, who can ne'er return. — 
Most glorious orb ! that wert a worship, ere 
The mystery of thy making was reveal'd ! 
Thou earliest minister of the Almighty, 
Which gladden'd on their mountain tops, tb« 

hearts 
Of the Chaldean shepherds, till they pour'd 
Themselves in orisons ! Thou material Godl 
And representative of the Unknown — 
Who chose thee for his shadow ! Thou chief 

star ! 
Centre of many stars! which mak'st our earth 
Endurable, and temperest the hues 
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays ! 
Sire of the seasons ! Monarch of the climes, 
And those who dwell in them ! for near or far, 
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee, 
Even as our outward aspects; — thou dost rise, 
And shine, and set in glory. Fare thee well : 
I ne'er shall see thee more. As my first glanca 
Of love and wonder was for thee, then take 
My latest look : thou wilt not beam on one 
To whom the gifts of life and warmth have been 
Of a more fatal nature. He is gone : 
I follow. [Exit Manfred. 

SCENE III. 

The Mountains — The Castle of Manfred at 
some distance — A Terrace before a Tower. 
—Time, Twilight. 

Herman, Manuel, and other Dependant* 
of Manfred. 

Her. 'T is strange enough; night after night, 
for years, 
He hath pursued long vigils in this tower, 
Without a witness. I have been within it.— 
So have we all been oft-times: but from it, 
Or its contents, it were impossible 
To draw conclusions absolute, of aught 
His studies tend to. To be sure there is 
O^e chamber where none enter: I would give 
Tno fee of what I have to come these three years 
To pore upon its mysteries. 

Manuel. 'T were dangerous ; 

Content thyself with what thou know'sl al 
rand 



MANFRED. 



101 



Her. All ! Manuel ! thou art elderly and wise, 
And couldst say much ; thou hast dwelt within 

the castle — 
[low many years is't? 

Manuel. Ere Count Manfred's birth, 

1 nerved his lather, whom he nought resembles. 

Her. There be more sons in like predicament. 
But wherein do they differ? 

Manuel. I speak not 

Of features or of form, but mind and habits ; 
Count Sigismund was proud, — but gay and 

free, — 
A warrior and a reveller; he dwelt not 
With books and solitude, nor made the night 
A gloomy vigil, but a festal time, 
Merrier than day; he did not walk the rocks 
And forests like a wolf, nor turn aside 
From men and their delights. 

Her. Beshrew the hour, 

But those were jocund times! I would that such 
Would visit the old walls again ; they look 
As if they had forgotten them. 

Manuel. These .walls 

Must change their chieftain first. Oh ! I have 

seen 
Some strange things in them, Herman. 

Her. Come, be friendly; 

Relate me some to while away our watch : 
I 've heard thee darkly speak of an event 
\Vhich happen'd hereabouts, by this same tower. 

Manuel. That was a night indeed ! I do re- 
member 
' T was twilight, as it may be now, and such 
Another evening ; — yon red cloud, which rests 
On Eigher's pinnacle, so rested then, — 
So like that it might be the same; the wind 
Was faint and gusty, and the mountain snows 
Began to glitter with the climbing moon ; 
Count Manfred was, as now, within his tower, — 
How occupied, we knew not, but with him 
The sole companion of his wanderings 
And watehings — her, whom of all earthly tilings 
That lived, the only thing he seem'dtolove, — ■ 
As he, indeed, by blood was bound to do, 

The Lady Astarte, his 

Hush! who comes here? 



Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. Where is your master? 

Her. Yonder, in the tower. 

Abbot. I must speaR with him. 

Man uel. "T is impossible ; 

He is most private, and must not be thus 
Intruded on. 



Abbot. Upon myself I *ake 

The forfeit of my fault, if fault there be — 
But I must *ee him. 

Her. Thou hast seen him once 

This eve already. 

Abbot. Herman ! I command thee, 

Knock, and apprize the Count of my approach. 

Her. "Wc dare not. 

Abbot. Then it seems I must be herald 
Of my own purpose. 

Manuel. Reverend father, stop- - 

I pray you pause. 

Abbot. Why so ? 

Manuel. But step this way. 

And 1 will tell you further. iEueunt. 



SCENE IV. 

Interior of the Tower. 

Manfred alone. 
The stars are forth, the moon above the topi 
Of the snow-shining mountains. — Beautiful: 
I linger yet with Nature, for the night 
Hath been to me a more familiar lace 
Than that of man; and in her starry shade 
Of dim and solitary loveliness, 
I learn'd the language of another world. 
I do remember me, that in my youth, 
When I was wandering, — upon such a niga 4 
I stood within the Coliseum's wall, 18 
Midst the chief relics of almighty Rome; 
The trees which grew along the broken arches 
Waved dark in the blue midnight, and the stars 
Shone through the rents of ruin; from afar 
The watchdog bay'd beyond the Tiber ; and 
More near from out the Cfesars' palace came 
The owl's long cry, and, interruptedly, 
Of distant centinels the fitful song 
Begun and died upon the gentle wind. 
Some cypresses beyond the time-worn breach 
Appear'd to skirt the horizon, yet they stood 
Within a bowshot — where the Cajsars dwelt, 
And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst 
A grove which springs through levell'd battle 

ments, 
And twines its roots with the imperial hearti* 
Ivy usurps the laurel's place of growth; — 
But the gladiators' bloody Circus stands. 
A noble wreck in ruinous perfection ! [halls, 
While Cflesar's chambers, and the Augustan 
Grovel on earth in indistinct decay. — 
And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon upor 
All this, and cast a wide and tender lignt, 
Which soften'd down the hoar austerity 



02 



MANFRED. 



Of rugged desolation, and fill'd up, 
As 'twere anew, the gaps of centuries; 
Leaving that beautiful which still was so, 
And making that which was not, till the place 
Became religion, and the heart ran o'er 
"\\ ith silent worship of the great of old \ — 
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule 
Our spirits from their urns. — 

'T was such a night ! 
T is strange that I recall it at this time ; 
But I have found our thoughts take wildest flight 
Even at the moment when they should array 
Themselves in pensive order. 

Enter the Abbot. 

Abbot. My good lord! 

[ crave a second grace for this approach; 
But yet let not my humble zeal offend 
By its abruptness — all it hath of ill 
Recoils on me ; its good in the effect 
Maylight upon your head — could I say heart — 
Could I touch that, with words or prayers, I 

should 
Recall a noble spirit which hath wander'd; 
But is not yet all lost. 

Man. Thou know'st me net; 

My.days are number 'd, and my deeds recorded: 
Retire, or 't will be dangerous — Away ! 

Abbot. Thou dost not mean to menace me? 

Man. Not I ; 

I svnply tell thee peril is at hand, 
And would preserve thee. 

Abbot. What dost mean? 

Man. Look there! 

What dost thou see ? 

Abbot. Nothing. 

Man. Look there, I say 

And stedfastly; — now tell me what thou seest. 

Abbot. That which should shake me, — but 
I fear it not — 
I see a dusk and awful figure rise, 
Like an infernal god, from out the earth ; 
His face wrapt in a mantle, and his form 
Robed as with angry clouds: he stands between 
Thyself and me — but I do fear him not. 

Man. Thou hast no cause — he shall not 
harm thee — but 
1 lis sight may shock thine old limbs into palsy. 
1 say to thee — Retire ! 

Abbot. And I reply — 

Never — till I have battled with this fiend : — 
What doth he here? 

Man. Why — ay — what doth he here ?— 
> did not send for him, — he is unbidden. 

Abbot. Alas ! lost mortal ! what with guests 
like these 



Hast thou to do? I tremble for thy sake: 
Why doth he gaze on thee, and thou on himf 
Ah! he unveils his aspect: on his brow 
The thunder-scars are graven ; from his eye 
Glares forth the immortality of hell — 
A vaunt! — 

Man. Pronounce — what is thy mission ? 

Sjtirit. Com* i 

Abbot. What art thou, unknown being? an- 
swer ! — speak ! 

Spirit. The genius of this mortal. — Come ! 
'tis time. 

Man. 1 am prepared for all things, but deny 
The power which summons me. Who sentthec 
here? 

Spirit. Thou 'It know anon — Come! come! 

Man. I have commanded 

Things of an essence greater far than thine, 
And stri ven with thy masters. Get thee hence '.' 

Spirit. Mortal ! thine hour is come — A way ! 
I say. [but not 

Man. I knew, and know my hour is come, 
To render up my soul to such as thee : 
Away ! I '11 die as I have lived — alone. 

Spirit. Then I must summon up my bre- 
thren. — Rise ! [ Other Sp irits rise up. 

Abbot. Avaunt ! ye evil ones ! — A vaunt ! I 
say, — 
Ye have no power where piety hath power, 
And I do charge ye in the name 

Spirit. Old man! 

We know ourselves,ourmission,and thine order; 
Waste not thy holy words on idle uses, 
It were in vain : this man is forfeited. 
Once more I summon him — Away ! away 

Man. I do defy ye, — though I t^ITi my soul 
Is ebbing from me, yet I do defy ye ; 
Nor will I hence, while I have earthly breath 
To breathe my scorn upon ye — earthly strength 
To wrestle, though with spirits; what ye take 
Shall be ta'en limb by limb. 

Spirit. Reluctant mortal 

Is this the magian who would so pervade 
The world invisible, and make himself 
Almost our equal? — Can it be that thou 
Art thus in love with life? the very life 
Which made thee wretched ! 

Man. Thou false fiend, thou liest 

My life is in its last hour, — that I know, 
Nor would redeem a moment of that hour; 
I do not combat against death, but thee 
And thy surrounding angels ; my past power 
Was purchased by no compact with thy crew 
But by superior science — penance — daring-. 
And length of watching — strength of mind— 
and skill 



MANFRED. 



103 



la knowledge of our fathers — when the earth 
San' men and spirits walking side by side, 
And gave ye no supremacy: 1 stand 
Upon my strength — 1 do defy — deny — 
Spain back, and scorn ye! — 

Spirit. But thy many crimes 

Have made thee 

Man. "What are they to such as thee? 

Must crimes be punish'd but by other crimes, 
And greater criminals? — Back to thy hell! 
Thou hast no power upon me, that I feel; 
Thou never shalt possess me, that I know : 
What I have done is done; I bear within 
A torture which could nothing gain from thine . 
The mind which is immortal makes itself 
Requital for its good or evil thoughts — 
ts its own origin of ill and end — 
And its own place and time — its innate sense, 
When stripp'd of this mortality, derives 
No colour from the fleeting things without; 
But is absorb' d in sufferance or in joy, 
Born from the knowledge of its own desert. 
Thau didst not tempt me, and thou couldstnot 

tempt me ; 
I have not been thy dupe, nor am thy prey — 



But was my own destroyer, and will be 
My own hereafter. — Back, ye baffled fiend* 
The hand of death is on me — but not yours! 
[77tf D?moM disappear. 
Abbot. Alas! how pale thou art — thy lips 
are white — 
And thy breast heaves — and in thy gasping 

throat 
The accents rattle — Give thy prayers » 

Heaven — 

tray — albeit but in thought, — but die not thus 

Man. T is over — my dull eyes can lix thee 

not ; 

But all things swim around me, and the earth 

Heaves as it were beneath me. Fare thet 

well- 
Give me thy hand. 

Abbot. Cold — cold — even to the heart- 
But yet one prayer — Alas! how fares it witn 
thee ? 
Man. Old man! 'tis not so difficult to die. 
[Manfred e.rpirex 
Abbot. He's gone — his soul hath la'eu bi; 
earthless flight — 
Whither? I dread to think — but he is 



Cain : 



A MYSTERY. 



Now the Serpent wu more subtil than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made ' 

Gen. ch. iii- ver. 1. 



PREFACE. 

f be folio-wing scenes are entitled "A Mystery," 
in conformity with the ancient title annexed to 
dramas upon similar subjects,whieh were styled 
" Mysteries, or Moralities." The author has 
by no means taken the same liberties with his 
subject which were common, formerly, as may 
be seen by any reader curious enough to refer 
to those very profane productions, whether in 
English, French, Italian, or Spanish. The 
author has endeavoured to preserve the lan- 
guage adapted to his characters ; and where it 
is (and this is but rarely) taken from actual 
Scripture, he has made as little alteration, 
even of words, as the rhythm would permit. 
The reader will recollect that the book of Ge- 
nesis does not state that Eve was tempted by 
a demon, but by "the Serpent; " and that only 
because he was " the most subtil of all the 
beasts of the field." Whatever interpretation 
the Rabbins and the Fathers may have put 
upon this, I take the words as I find them, 
and reply, with Bishop Watson upon similar 
occasions, when the Fathers were quoted to 
Lim, as Moderator in the schools of Cambridge, 
" Heboid the Book!" — holding up the Scrip- 
ture. It is to be recollected that my present 
subject has nothing to do with the New Testa- 
me>it, to which no reference can be here made 
without anachronism. With the poems upon 
similar topics I have not been recently fami- 
liar. Since I was twenty, I have never read 
Milton; but I had read him so frequently 
before, that this may make little difference. 
Gesner's " Death of Abel" I have never read 
since I was eight years of age, at Aberd '•en. 
The general impression of my recollection is 



delight ; but of the contents I remember only 
that Cain's wii'e was called Mahala, and Abel'i 
Thirza: in the following pages I have called 
them " Adah" and"Zillah," the earl i est fern "ie 
names which occur in Genesis ; they were those 
of Lamech's wives: those of Cain and Abel are 
not called by their names. Whether, then, a 
coincidence of subject may have caused the 
same in expression, I know nothing, and care 
as little. 

The reader will please to bear in mind (what 
few choose to recollect), that there is no allu- 
sion to a future state in any of the books of 
Moses, nor indeed in the Old Testament.! For 
a reason for this extraordinary omission he 
may consult Warburton's " Divine Legation;" 
whether satisfactory or not, no better has yet 
Decn assigned. I have therefore supposed it 
new to Cain, without, I hope, any perversion 
of Holy Writ. 

With regard to the language of Lucifer, it 
was difficult for me to make him talk like a 
clergyman upon the same subjects; but I have 
done what I could to restrain him within tho 
bounds of spiritual politeness. 

If he disclaims having tempted Eve in the 
shape of the Serpent, it is only because th 
book of Genesis has not the most distant allu 
sion to any thing of the kind, but merely to the 
Serpent in his serpentine capacity. 

Note. — The reader will perceive that the 
author has partly adopted in this poem the 
notion of Cuvier, that the world had been de- 
stroyed several times before the creation of 
man. This speculation, derived from the dif- 
ferent strata and the bones of enormous and 
unknown animals found in them, is not con- 
trary to the Mosaic account but rather con- 



CAIN. 



105 



firms it ; as no human bones have yet been 
discovered in those strata, although those of 
many known animals arc found near the re- 
mains of the unknown. The assertion of 
Lucifer, that the pie-Adamite world was also 
peopled by rational beings much more intelli- 
gent than man, and proportionality powerful to 
the mammoth. *fcc. ice. is, of course, a poetical 
fiction to help him to make out his case. 

I ought to add, that there is a"trimelogedia" 
•f Allien, called " Abele." — I have never read 
that, nor any other of the posthumous works 
i>f the writer, except his Life. 

Ravenna, Sept. 20, 1821 , 



.DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Men. — Adam. 
Cain. 
Abel. 

Spirits. — Angel op the Lord 
Lucifek. 



Women — Evb. 
Adah. 
Z ill ah. 



GDatn: 

A MYSTERY. 

ACT I. 

SCENE I. 

\e Land without Paradise. — Tine, Sunrise. 

Ai vm, Evk, Cain, Abel, Adah, Zillah, 
offering a Sacrifice. 

Adam. Gon, the Eternal! Infinite! All- 
wise ! — 
Who out of darkness on the deep didst make 
Light on the waters with a word — all hail ! 
Jehovah, with returning light, all hail! 
Ere. God ! who didst name the day, and 
separate 
Morning from night, till then divided nevcr- 



Who didst divide the wave from wave, and call 

Part of thy work the firmament — all hail! 

Abel. God! who didst call the elements into 
Earth — ocean — air — and lire, and with thi day 
And night, and worlds, which these illuminate. 
Or shadow, madest beings to enjoy them, 
And love both them and thee — all hail '. al> 
hail ! 
Adah. God, the Eternal! Parent of all things! 
Who didst create these best and beauteous 

beings, 
To be beloved, more than all, save thee — 
Let me love thee and them : — All haii ! all 
hail! [blots; i g all. 

Zillah. Oh, God ! who loving, making, 
Yet didst permit the Serpent to creep in, 
And drve my father forth from Paradise, 
Keep us from further evil : — Hail ! all hail ' 
Adam. Son Cain, my first-born, wherefore 

art thou silent? 
Cain. Why should I speak ? 
Adam. To pray. 

Cain. Have ye not pray'd? 

Adam. We have, most fervently. 
Cain, And loudly : I 

Have heard you. 

Adam So will God, I trust. 

Abt-.l. Amen ! 

Adam. But thou, my eldest born, art silent 

still. 
Cain. 'T is better I should be so. 
Adam. Wherefore so ? 

Cain. I have nought to ask.2 
uidam. Nor aught to thank for ? 

Cain. No. 

Adam. Dost thou not live ? 
Cain. Must I not die? 

Eve Alas ! 

The fruit of our forbidden tree begins 
To fall 3. 

Adam. And we must gather it again. 
Oh, God ! why didst thou plant the tree of 
knowledge ? 
Cain. And wherefore pluck'd ye not the 
tree of life? 
Ye might have then defied him. 

Adam. Oh! my son, 

Blaspheme not : these are serpents' words, 

Cain. Why not? 

The snake spoke truth : it was the tree oi 

knowledge ; 
It was the tree of life: knowledge is good, 
And life is good ; and how can both be evil? 
Eve. My boy ! thouspeakestas 1 spoke, insin, 
Before thy birth : let me not see renew d 
My Misery in thine. 1 have repented. 



10G 



CAIN. 



Let me not see my offspring fall into 
The snares beyond the walls of Paradise, 
Which e'en in Paradise destroy 'd his parents. 
Content thee with what in. Had we been so 
Thou now hadstbeen contented. — Oh, my son 

Adam. Our orisons completed, let us her ?e, 
Each to his task of toil — not heavy, though 
Needful : the earth is young, and yields us kindly 
Her fruits with little labour. 

Eve. Cain, my son, 

Behold thy father cheerful and resign'd, 
And do as he doih. [Exeunt Adam and Eve. 

Zillah. Will thou not, my brother? 

Abel. Why wilt thou wear this gloom upon 
thy brow, 
Which can avail thee nothing, save to rouse 
The Eternal anger? 

Adah. My beloved Cain, 

Wilt thou frown even on me? 

Cain. No, Adah ! no; 

I fain would be alone a little while. 
Abel, I 'm sick at heart; but it will pass. 
Precede, me, brother — I will follow shortly. 
And you, too, sisters, tarry not behind; 
Your gentleness must not be harshly met : 
I 'U follow you anon. 

Adah. If not, I will 

Return to seek you here. 

Abel The peace of God 

Be on your spirit, brother! 

[Exeunt Abel, Zillah, and Adah 

Cain {solus). And this is 

Life! — Toil! and wherefore should I toil? — 

because 
My father could not keep his place in Eden. 
What had / done in this? — I was unborn: 
I sought not to be bom; nor love the state 
To which that birth has broughtme. Why did he 
Yield to the serpent and the woman? or, 
Yielding, why suffer? What was there in this? 
The tree w r as planted, and why not for him? 
If not, why place him near it, where it grew, 
The fairest in the centre? They have but 
One answer to all questions, "T was his will, 
And he is good " How know I that? Because 
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too. follow? 
I judge but by the fruits — and they are bitter — 
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine. 
Whoru have we here? — A shape like to the 

angeis, 
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect 
Of spiritual essence: why do I quake? 
Why should I fear him more than other spirits, 
Whom I see daiW wave their fiery swords 
Before t'.e gates round which I linger oft. 
In twilight's Lour to catch a glimpse of those 



Gardens which are my just inheritance, 
Ere the night closes o'er the inhibited walls 
And the immortal trees which overtop 
The cherubim-defended battlements? 
If I shrink not from these, the fire-arm'd angels 
Why should I quail from him who nov, 

approaches ? 
Yet he seems mightier far than them, nor less 
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful 
As he hath been, and might be : sorrow seems 
Half of his immortality. 4 And is it 
So ? and can aught grieve save humanity ? 
He cometh. 

Enter Lucifee. 

Lucifer. Mortal ! 

Cain. Spirit, who art thou? 

Lucifer. Master of spirits. 

Cain. And being so, canst thou 

Leave them, and walk with dust ? 

Lucifer. I know the thoughts 

Of dust, and feel for it, and with you. 

Cahi. How ! 

You know my thoughts ? 

Lucifer. They are the thoughts of al] 

Worthy of thought ;—'t is your immortal part 
Which speaks within you. 

Cain. What immortal part? 

This has not been reveal'd : the tree of life 
Was withheld from us by my father's folly, 
While that of knowledge, by mymother's haste, 
Waspluck'd too soon ; and ail the fruitis death! 

Lucifer. They have deceived thee ; thou 
shalt livt 

Cain. I live, 

But live to die: and, living, see no thing 
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging, 
A loathsome, and yet all invincible 
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as 1 
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome — 
And so I live. Would I had never lived ! 

Lucifer. Thou livest, and must live for ever: 
think not 
The earth, which is thine outward cov'rimj;. it 
Existence — it will ceaso, and thou wilt be 
No less than thou ait now. 

Cain. Note.' and why 

No more ? 

Lucifer. It may be thou shalt be as we. 

Cain. And ye? 

Lucifer. Are everlasting. 

Cain. Are ye happy . 

Lucifer. We are mighty. 

Cain. Are ye happy? 

Lucifer. No : art thou* 

Cain. How shouio A be so? Look on m« ' 



CAIN. 



107 



Lucifer. Poor clay ! 

And thou pretendest to be wretched ! Thou ! 

Cain. I am : — and thou, with all thy might, 
what art thou ? 

Lucifer. One who aspired to be what made 
thee, and 
Would not have made thee what thou art. 

Cain. Ah ! 

Thou look' st almost a god ; and 

Lucifer. I am none : 

And having fail'd to be one, would be nought 
Save what 1 am. He cmquer'd ; let him reign! 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer. Thy sire's Maker, and the earth's. 

Cain. And heaven's, 

And all that in them is. So I have heard 
His seraphs sing ; and so my father saith. 

Lucifer. They say — what they must sing 
and say, on pain 
Of being that which \ am — and thou art— 
Of spirits and of men. 

Cain. And what is that ? 

Lucifer. Souls who dare use their immor- 
tality — 5 
Souls who dare look the Omnipotent tyrant in 
His everlasting face, and tell him, that 
His evil is not good ! If he has made, 
As he saith — which I know not, nor believe — 
But, if he made us — he cannot unmake : 
We are immortal! — nay, he'd have us so, 
That he may torture : — let him ! He is great — 
But, in his greatness, is no happier than 
We in our conflict! Goodness would not make 
Evil; and what else hath he made? Butlethim 
Sit on his vast and solitary throne, 
Creating worlds, to make eternity 
Less burthensome to his immense existence 
And unparticipated solitude ! 
Let him crowd orb on orb : he is alone 
Indefinite, indissoluble tyrant! [boon 

Could he but crush himself, 'twere the best 
He ever granted- but, let him reign on, 
And multiply himself in misery! 
Spirits and men, at least we sympathise — 
And, suffering in concert, make our pangs, 
Innumerable, more endurable, 
By the unbounded sympathy of all — 
\Vith all! But He! so wretched in his height, 
So restless in his wretchedness, must still 
Create, and re-create 

Cain. Thou speak'st to me of things which 
long have swum 
In visions through my thought: I never could 
Re oncile what I saw with what I heard. 
M iather and my mother talk to me 
trpents, and of fruits and trees : I see 



The gates of what the., call their Paradise 
Guarded by fiery-swonkd cherubim, 
Which shut them out, and me: I feel the weigh 
Of daily toil and constant thought : I look 
Around a world where I seem nothing, with 
Thoughts which arise within me, as if they 
Could master all things: — but I thought alone 
This misery was mine. — My lather is 
Tamed down; my mother has forgot the mil 6 
Which made her thirst for knowledge at the ris'i 
Of an eternal curse ; my brother is 
A watching shepherd boy, who offers up 
The firstlings of the flock to him who bids 
The earth yield nothing to us without sweat 
My sister Zillah sings an earlier hymn 
Than the birds' matins; and my Adah, my 
Own and beloved, she, too, understands not 
The mind which overwhelms me: never till 
Now met I aught to sympathise with me. 
'Tis well — I rather would consort with spirits. 

Lucifer. And hadst thou not been fit by 
thine own soul 
For such companionship, I would not now 
Have stood before thee as I am : a serpent 
Hail been enough to charm ye, as before. 

Cain. Ah! didst thou tempt my mother? 

Lucifer. I tempt none, 

Save with the truth: was not the tree, the tree 
Of knowledge ? and was not the tree of life 
Still fruit'ul?t> Did / bid her pluck them not? 
Did / plant things prohibite- 1 within 
The reach of beings innocent, and curious 
By their own innocence? I would have made 
ye [thrust ye 

Gods; and even He who thrust ye forth, so 
Because " ye should not eat the fruits of life, 
And become gods as we." Were those hid 
words ? 

Cain. They were, as I have heard from those 
who heard them. 
In thunder, 

Lucifer. Then who was the demon ? 1 k 
Who would not let ye live, or he who would 
Have made ye live for ever in the joy 
And power of knowledge? 

Cain. Would they had snatch'd both 

The fruits, or neither! 

Lucifer. One is yours already; 

The other may be still. 

Cain. How so? 

Lucifer. By being 

Yourselves, in your resistance. Nothing can 
Quench the mind, if the mind will be itself 
And centre of surrounding things — 'tis made 
To sway. 

Cain. But didst thou tempt my pai cuts? 



108 



CAIN. 



Lucifer. I ? 

Poor clay ! what should I tempt them for, or 
how? 

Cain They say the serpent was a spirit. 
Lucifer. Who 

Saith that? It is not written so on high: 
The proud One will not so far falsify, 
Though man's vast fears and little vanity 
Would make him cast upon the spiritual na- 
ture 
His» own low failing. The snake was the 
snake — [tempted, 

No more; and yet not less than those he 
In nature being earth also — more in wisdom, 
Since he could overcome them, and foreknew 
The knowledge fatal to their narrow joys. 
Think'st thou I 'd take the shape of things that 
die? 
Cain. But the thing had a demon? 
Lucifer. He but woke one 

In those he spake to with his forky tongue. 
I tell thee that the serpent was no more 
Than a mere serpent: ask the cherubim 
Who guard the tempting tree. When thousand 

ages 
Have roll'd o'er your dead ashes,and your seed's, 
The seed of the then world may thus array 
Their earliest faidt in fable, and attribute 
To me a shape I scorn, as I scorn all 
That bows to him, who made things but to bend 
Before his sullen, sole eternity ; 
But we, who see the truth, must speak it. Thy 
Fond parents listen'd to a creeping thing, 
And fell. For what should spirits tempt them? 

What 
Was there to envy in the narrow bounds 
Of Paradise, that spirits who pervade 

Space but I speak to thee of what thou 

know'st not, 
With all thy tree of knowledge. 

Cain. But thou canst not 

Speak aught of knowledge which I would not 

know, 
/nd do not thirst to know, and bear a mind 
To know. 

Lucifer. And heart to look on? 
Cain. Be it proved. 

Lucifer. Darest thou to look on Death? 
Cain. lie has not yet 

Been seen. 
Lucifer. But must be undergone. 
Cain. My father 

Says he is something dreadful, and my mother 
Weeps when he is named ; and Abel lifts his 

eyes 
To heaven, and Zillah casts hers to the earth, 



And sighs a prayer ; and Adah looXs on me, 
And speaks not. 

Lucifer. And thou? 

Cain. Thoughts unspeakabli 

Crowd in my breast to burning, when I heat 
Of this almighty Death, who is, it seems. 
Lievitable. Could 1 wrestle with him? 
I wrestled with the lion, when a boy, 
In play, till he ran roaring from my gripe. 

Lucifer. It has no shape; but will absorb 
all things 
That bear the form of earth-born being. 

Cain. Ah! 

I thought it was a being : who could do 
Such evil things to beings save a being ? 

Lucifer. Ask the Destroyer. 

Cain. Who? 

Lucifer The Maker — call him 

Which name thou wilt; he makes but to destroy. 

Cain. I knew not that, yet thought it, since 
I heard 
Of death : although I know not what it is, 
Yet it seems horrible. 1 have look'd out 
In the vast desolate night in search of him ; 
And when I saw gigantic shadows in 
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequer'd 
By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords, 
I watch'd for what I thoughthis coming 7 ; foi 
With fear rose longing in my heart to know 
What 't was which shook us all — but nothing 

caiAft. 
And then I tuvn'd my weary eyes from off 
Our native and forbidden Paradise, 
Up to the lights above us, in the azure, 
Which are so beautiful : shall they, too, die? 

Lucifer. Perhaps — but long outlive botb 
thine and thee. 

Cain. I 'm glad of that: I would not havt 
them die — 
They are so lovely. What is death ? I fear 
I feel, it is a dreadful thing ; but what, 
I cannot compass: 'tis denounced against us. 
Both them who sinn'd and sinn'd not.as an ill— 
W T hat ill ? 

Lucifer. To be resolved into the earth. 

Cain. But shall I know it? 

Lucifer. As I know not death, 

I cannot answer. 

Cain. Were I quiet earth 

That were no evil : would I ne'er had crc/en 
Aught else but dust ! 

Lucifer. That is a grovelling wish, 

Less than thy father s, for he wish d to know. 

Cain. But not to live, or wherefore pluck 'J 
he not 
The life tree? 



CAIN. 



lOf 



Lucifer. He was hinder'd. 

Cain. Deadly error! 

Not to snatch first that fruit: — hut ere he pluck' d 
The knowledge, he was ignorant of death. 
Alas! 1 scarcely now know what it is, 
Vnd yet I fear it — fear I know not what! 

Lucifer. And I, who know all things, fear 
nothing: see 
What is true knowledge. 

Gt&n. Wilt thou teach me all? 

Lucifer. Ay, upon one condition. 

Cain. Name it. 

Lucifer. That 

Cbou dost fall down and worship me — thy 
Lord. 

Cain. Thou art not the Lord my father 
worships. 

Lucifer. No. 

Cain. His equal? 

Lucifer. No. — 1 have nought in common 
with him ! [beneath — 

Nor would: I would be aught above — 
Aught save a sharer or a servant of 
His power. I dwell apart; but I am great: — 
Many there are who "worship me, and more 
Who shall — be thou amongst the first. 

Cain. I never 

As yet have bow'd unto my father's God, 
Although my brother Abel oit implores 
That I would join with him in sacrifice:— 
Why should I bow to thee? 

Lucifer. Hast thou ne'er bow'd 

To him? 

Cain. Have I not said it? — need 1 say it? 
Could not thy mighty knowledge teach thee that? 

Lucifer. He who bows not to him has 
bow'd to me ! 

Cain. But I will bend to neither. 

Lucifer. Ne'er the less, 

Thou art my worshipper: not worshipping 
fihn makes thee mine the same. 

Cam. And what is that? 

'mjuci e :r. Thou 'It know here — and hereafter. 

Cair. Let me but 

8e taught the mystery of my being. 

Lucifer. Follow 

Where I will lead thee. 

Cain. But I must retire 
To till the earth — for I had promised 

Lucifer. What? 

Cain. To cull some first-fruits. 

Lucifer. "Why 

Cain To offer up 

With Abel on an altar 

Lucifer. Saidst thou not 

Thou ne'er hadst bent to him who made thee? 



Cain. Yes— 

But Abel's earner prayer has wrought upon 

me ; [Adah 

The offering is more his than mine — and 

Lucifer. Why dost thou hesitate ? 

Cain. She is my sister, 

Born on the same day, of the same womb ; 
and [and 

She wrung from me, with tears, this promise; 
Rather than see her weep, 1 would, methinks, 
Bear all — and worship aught. 

Lucifer. Then follow me : 

Cain. I will. 

Enter Adah. 

Adah. My brother, I have come for thee; 
It is our hour of rest and joy — and we [not 
Have less without thee. Thou hast labour'd 
This morn ; but I have done thy task : the 
fruits [ripens: 

Are ripe, and glowing as the light which 
Come away. 

Cain. See'st thou not ? 

Adah. I see an angel , 

We have seen many : will he share our hour 
Of rest ? — he is welcome. 

Cain. But he is not like 

The angels we have seen. 

Adah. Are there, then, others? 

But he is welcome, as they were : they deign'd 
To be our guests — will he 2 

Cain [to Lucifer). Wilt thou ? 

Lucifer I ask 

Thee to be mine. 

Cain. I must away with him. 

Adah. And leave us ? 

Cain. Ay. 

Adah. And me ? 

Cain, Beloved Adah ' 

Adah. Let me go with thee. 

Lucifer. No, she must not. 

Adah. Who 

Art thou that steppest between heart and heart: 

Cain. He is a god. 

Adah. How know'st thou ? 

Cain. He speaks like 

A god. 

Adah. So did the serpent, and it lied. 

Lucifer. Thou errest, Adah ! — was not the 
tree that 
Of knowledge ? 

.£dxh. Ay — to our eternal sorrow 

Lucifer. And yet that grief is knowledge— 
so he lied not : 
And if he did betray you, 't was with truth ; 
And truth in its own essence cannot be 
But good. 



110 



CAIN. 



Adah. But all we know of it has gather'd 
Evil on ill : expulsion from our home, 
And dread, and toil, and sweat, and heaviness; 
Remorse of that which was — and hope of that 
Which cometh not. Cain ! walk not with 
this spirit. r — I 

Bear with what we have home, and love uio 
love thee. [sire? 

Lucifer. More than thy mother, and thy 

Aihih. 1 do. Is that a sin, too? 

Lucifer. No, not yet : 

It one day will he in your children. 

Adah. What ! 

Must notmy daughter love her brother Enoch? 

Lucifer. Not as thou lovest Cain. 

Adah. Oh, my God ' 

Shall they not love and bring forth things 
that love [milk 

Out of their love ? have they not drawn their 
Out of this bosom ? was not he, their father, 
Bom of the same sole womb, in the same hour 
With me ? did we not love each other ? and 
In multiplying our being multiply 
Things which will love each other as we love 
Them ? — And as 1 love thee, my Cain! go not 
Forth with this spirit ; he is not of ours. 

Lucifer. The sin I speak of is not of my 
making, 
And cannot be a sin in you — whate'er 
It seem in those who will replace ye in 
Mortality. 

Adah". What is the sin which is not 
Sin in itself ? Can circumstance make sin 
Or virtue ? — if it doth, we are the slaves 
Of [and higher 

Lucifer. Higher things than ye are slaves : 
Than them or ye would be so, did they not 
Prefer an independency of torture • 
To the smooth agonies of adulation, [prayers, 
In hymns and harpings, and self-seeking 
To that which is omnipotent, because 
[t is omnipotent, and not from love, 
But cerror and self-hope. 

Adah. Omnipotence 

Must be all goodness. 

Lucifer. Was it so in Eden ? 

Adah. Fiend ! tempt me not with beauty ; 
thou art fairer 
Than was the serpent, and as false. 

uucifer. As true. 

Ask Eve, your mother: bears she not the 

knowledge 
Of good and evil? 

Adah. Oh, my mother ! thou 

Hast pluck'd a fruit more fatal to thine 
offspring 



Than to thyself; thou at the least hast pass'<! 
Thy youth in Paradise, in innocent 
And happy intercourse with happy spirits : 
But we, thy children, ignorant of Eden, 
Are girt about by demons, who assume 
The words of God*, and tempt us with our own 
Dissatisfied and curious thoughts — as thou 
Wert work'd on by the snake, in thy most 

flush'd 
And heedless, harmless wantonness of bliss. 
1 cannot answer this immortal thing 
Which stands before me ; I can not abhor him ; 
I look upon him with a p easing fear, 
And yet I fly not from him: in his eye 
There is a fastening attraction which 
Fixes my fluttering eyes on his ; my heart 
Beats quick ; he awes me, and yet draws me 
near, [from him. 

Nearer, and nearer: — Cain — Cain — save m« 
Cain. What dreads my Adah? This is nc 
ill spirit. [beheld 

Adah. He is not God — nor God's: I have 
The cherubs and the seraphs; he looks not 
Like them. 

Cain. But there are spirits loftier still — 
The archangels 

Lucifer. And still loftier than the archangels. 
Adah. Ay — but not blessed. 
Lucifer. If the blessedness 

Consists in slavery — no. 

Adah. I have heard it said. 

The seraphs love most — cherubim know most — 
And this should be a cherub — since he loves not. 
Lucifer And if the higher knowledge 
quenches love, 
What must lie be you cannot love when known? 
Since the all-knowing cherubim love least, 
The seraphs' love can be but ignorance: 
That they are not compatible, the doom 
Of thy fond parents, for their daring, proves. 
Choose betwixt love and knowledge — since 
there is [already; 

No other choice : your sire hath chosen 
His worship is but fear. 

Adah. Oh, Cain ! choose love 

Cain. For thee, my Adah, I choose not — 
it was 
Born with me — but I love nought else. 

Adah. Our parents ? 

Cain. Did they love us when they snatch o 
from the tree 
That which hath driven us all from Paradise? 
Adah. We were not boin then — and if wt 
had been, 
Should we not love them aud our clildreD 
Cain f 



CAIN. 



Ill 



Cam. My Httle Enoch ! and his lisping 
sister! 
Could i but deem them happy, I would half 

Forget but it c;m never be forgotten 

Through thrice a thousand generations! never 
Shall men love the remembrance of the man 
VVIi.- so\> d the seed of evil and mankind 
at the 3ame hour ! They pluck'd the tree of 

vience 
Anu sin — and, not content with their own 

sorrow, 
Begot me — thee — and all the few that are, 
And all the unnumber'd and innumerable 
Multitudes, millions, myriads, which may be, 
To inherit agonies accumulated 
By ages! — and/ must be sire of such things! 
I hy beauty and thy love — my love and. joy, 
The rapturous moment and the placid hour, 
ill ve love in our children and each other. 
Bat lead them and ourselves through many 

years 
Of sin and pain — or few, but still of sorrow, 
Entercheck'd with an instant of brief pleasure 
f j Death — the unknown ! Methinks the tree 

of knowledge 
Hath not fulrill'd its promise: — if they sinn'd 
At least they ought to have known all things 

that are 
Of knowledge — and the my tery of death. 
What do they know? — that they are miserable. 
What need of snakes and fruits to teach us that ? 

Adah. I am not wretched, Cain, and if thou 
Wert happy 

Cain. Be thou happy, then, alone — 

I will have naught to do with happiness, 
Which humbles me and mine. 

Adah. Alone I could not, 

Nor would be happy : but with those around us, 
I think I could be so, despite of death, 
"Vhich, as I know it not, I dread not, though 
it stems an awful shadow — if I may 
Judge from what I have heard. 

Lvua \r. And thou couldst not 

Aloin , thou say'st, be happy? 

A:<ah. Alone! Oh, my God! 

Who could be happy and alone, or good? 
To me my solitude scans sin; unless 
When 1 think how soon I shall see my brother, 
His brother, and ( urchi.dren,and our parents. 

Lucifer. Yet thy God is alone; and is he 
happy ? 
Lonely, and good? 

Adah. He is not so ; he hath 

The angels and the mortals to make happy, 
And thus becomes so in diffusing joy ! 
What else can joy be, but the spreading joy? 



Lucifer. Ask of your sire, the exile lies* 
from Eden; 
Or of his lhst-born son: ask your own heait 
It is not tranquil. 

Adah. Alas ! no ! and you — 

Are you of heaven ? 

Lucifer. If I am not, inquire 

The cause of this all-spreading happiness 
(Which you proclaim) of the all-great and good 
Maker of life and living things; it is 
His secret, and he keeps it. We must bear, 
And some of us resist, and both in vain, 
His seraphs say; but it is worth the trial, 
.Since better may net be without: there is 
A wisdom in the spirit, which directs 
To right, as in the dim blue air the eye 
Of you, young mortals, lights at once upon 
The star which watches, welcoming the mom. 

Adah. It is a beautiful star; I love it for 
Its beauty 

Lucifer. And why not adore? 

Adah. Our fathei 

Adores the Invisible only. 

Lucifer. But the symbols 

Of the Invisible are the loveliest 
Of what is visible; and yon bright star 
Is leader of the ho.->t of heaven. 

Adah. Our father 

Saith that he has beheld the God himself 
Who made him and our mother. 

Lucifer. Hast thou seen him? 

Adah Yes — in his works. 

Lucifer. But in his beii'g? 

Adah. No — 

Save in my father, who is God's own image 
Or in his angels, who are like to thee — 
And brighter, yet less beautiful and powerful 
In seeming: as the silent sunny noon. 
All light they look upon us; but thou seem'st 
Like an ethereal night, where long white clouds 
Streak the deep purple, and unnumber'd stars 
Spangle the wonderful mysterious vault 
With things that look as if they would be suns . 
So beautiful, unnumber'd, and endearing, 
Not dazzling, and yet drawing us to them, 
Ihey fill my eyes with tears, and so dost thou 
Thou seem'st unhappy : do not make us so, 
And I will weep for thee. 

Lucifer. Alas ! those tears ! 

Couldst thou but know what oceans will b« 
shed 

Adah. By me? 

Lucifer. By all 

Adah. What ah ? 

Lucifer. The million millions— 

The myriad myriads — the all-peopled earth— 



112 



CAIN. 



The unpeopled earth — and the oer-peopled 

Hell, 
Of which thy bosom is the germ. 

Adah. O Cain ! 

This spirit curseth us. 

Cain. Let him say on ; 

Him will I follow. 

Adah. Whither ? 

Lucifer. To a place 

Whence he shall come back to thee in an hour ; 
But in that hour see things of many days. 

Adah. How can that be ? 

Lucifer. Did not your Maker make 

Out of old worlds this new one in few days ? 
And cannot I, who aided in this work, 
Show in an hour what he hath made in many, 
Or hath destroyed iu few ? 

Cain. Lead on. 

Adah. Will he 

In sooth, return within an hour ? 

Lucifer. He shall. 

With us acts are exempt from time, and we 
Can crowd eternity into an hour, 
Or stretch an hour into eternity : 
We breathe not by a mortal measurement — 
But that 's a mystery. Cain, come on with me. 

Adah. Will he return ? 

Lucifer. Ay, woman ! he alone 

Of mortals from that place (the hrst and last 
Who shall return, save One), — shall come 

back to thee, 
To make that silent and expectant world 
As populous as this : at present there 
Are few inhabitants. 

Adah. Where dwellest thou? 

Lucifer. Throughout all space. Where 
should I dwell ? Where are 
Thy God or Gods — there am I : all things are 
Divided with me ; life and death — and time — 
Eternity — and heaven and earth — and that 
Which is not heaven nor earth , but peopled with 
Those who once peopled or shall people both — 
These are my realms ! So that I do divide 
His, and possess a kingdom which is not 
His. If I were not that which I have said, 
Could I stand here ? His angels are within 
Your vision. 

Adah. So they were when the fan- serpent 
Spoke with our mother first. 

Lucifer. Cain ! thou hast heard. 

If thou dost long for knowledge, I can satiate 
That thirst ; nor ask thee to partake of fruits 
Width shall deprive thee of a single good 
Tile conqueror has left thee. Follow me. 

Cain. Spirit, I have said it. 

I Exeunt Lucifek and Cain. 



Adah, (follows, exclaiming). Own ! ai<i 
brother! Cain! 



ACT II. 
SCENE I. 

The Abyss of Space. 

Cain. I tread on air, and sink not; yet I lea* 
To sink. 

Lucifer. Have faith in me, and thou shall be 
Borne on the air, of which I am the prince. 

Cain. Can I do so without impiety ? 

Lucifer. Believe — and sink not! doubt — 
and perish! thus 
Would run the edict of the other God, 
Who names me demon to his angels; thej 
Echo the sound to miserable things, 
Which, knowing nought beyond their shadow 
senses, [deem 

Worship the word which strikes their ear, and 
Evil or good what is proclaim'd to them 
In their abasement. I will have none such 
Worship or worship not, thou shalt behold 
The worlds beyond thy little w r orld, nor be 
Amerced for doubts be) ond thy little life 
With torture of my dooming. There will come 
An hour, when, toss'd upon some water-drops, 
A man shall say to a man, " Believe in me, 
And walk the waters ; " and the man shall Vk alV 
The billows and be safe. / will not say, 
Believe in me, as a conditional creed 
To save thee; but fly with me o'er the gulf 
Of space an equal flight, and I will show 
What thou dar'st not deny, — the history 
Of past, and present, and of future w r orkls. 

Cain, Oh, god, or demon, 01 whate'erthouai\, 
Is yon our earth? 

Lucifer. Dost thou not recogni t 

The dust which form'd your father ? 

Cain. Can it be " 

Yon small blue circle, swinging in far ether. 
With an inferior circlet near it still, 
Which looks like that which lit our rartbb 

night ? 
Is this our Paradise ? Where are its walls, 
And they who guard them ? 

Lucifer. Point me out the s : ie 

Of Paradise. 

Cam. How should I? As we move 
Like sunbeams onward, it grows small an* 

smaller, 
And as it waxes little, and then less, 
Gathers a halo round it, like the light 



CAIN. 



113 



Which shone ihc roundest of the stars, when I 
Beheld them from the skirts of Parjidi.se : 
Methihks they both, as we recede from them, 
Appear to join the innumerable stars 
Which are around us; and, us we move on, 
decrease their myriads. 

Lucifer. And if there should he 

Worlds greater than thine own, inhabited 
$1 greater things, and they themselves far more 
In number than the dust of thy dull earth, 
Though multiplied to animated atoms, 
A U li ving, and all doom'd to death.aud wretched, 
What wouldst thou think? 

Cain. I should he proud of thought 

Which knew such things. 

Lucifer. But if that high thought were 

Link d to a servile mass of matter, and, 
Knowing such things, aspiring to such things, 
And science stil,' beyond them, where chain'd 

down 
To the most gross and petty paltry wants, 
All foul and fulsome, and the very best 
Of thine enjoyments a sweet degradation, 
A most enervating and filthy cheat 
To lure thee on to the renewal of 
Fresh souls and bodies, all foredoom'd to be 
As frail, and few so happy 

Cain. Spirit! I 

Know nought of death, save as a dreadful thing 
Of which I have heard my parents speak, as of 
A hideous heritage I owe to them 
No less than life ; a heritage not happy, 
If I may judge, till now. But, spirit! if 
It be as thou hast said (and I within 
Feel the prophetic torture of its truth), 
Here let me die: for to give birth to those 
Who can but suffer many years, and die, 
Methinks is merely propagating death, 
And multiplying murder. 

Lucifer. Thou canst not 

All die — there is what must survive. 

Cain. The Other 

Spake not of this unto my father, when 
He shut him forth from Paradise, with death 
Written upon his forehead. But at least 
Let what is mortal of me perish, that 
1 may be in the rest as angels are. 

Lucifer. I am angelic: wouldst thou be as 
I am? [power, 

Cain. I know not what thou art* 1 see thy 
And see thou show's! me things beyond my 

power, 
Beyond all power of my born faculties, 
Although inferior still to my desires 
And my conceptions. 

Lucifer. What are thev which dwell 



So humbly in their pride, as to sojourn 
With worms in clay '.' 

Cain. And what art thou who dmelletf 
So haughtily in spirit, and canst range 
Nature and immortality — and vet 
Scem'st sorrowful ? 

Lucifer. I seem that which I am. 

And therefore do I ask of thee, if thou 
Wouldst he immortal ? 

Cain. Thou hast said, I must ba 

Immortal in despite of me. I knew hot 
This until lately — but since it must be, 
Let me, or happy or unhappy, learn 
To anticipate my immortality. 

Lucifer. Thou didst before I came upon thee. 

Cain. How? 

Lucifer By suffering 

Cain. And must torture be immortal? 

Lucifer. We and thy sons will try. But 
now, behold ! 
Is it not glorious '{ 

Cain Oh, thou beautiful 

And unimaginable ether! and 
Ye multiplying masses of increased 
And still increasing lights! what are ye? what 
Is this blue wilderness of interminable 
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen 
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden* 
Is your course measured for ye ? Or do ye 
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry 
Through an aerial universe of endless 
Expansion — at which my soul aches to think— 
Intoxicated with eternity? 
Oh God! Oh Gods! or whatsoe'er ye are! 
How beautiful ye are ! how beautiful 
Your works, or accidents, or whatsoe'er 
They may be! Let me die, as atoms die, 
(If that they die) or know ye in your might 
And knowledge ! My thoughts are not in this 

hour 
Unworthy what I see, though my dust is; 
Spirit! .le, me expire, or see them nearer. 

Lucifer. Art thou not nearer? look back to 
thine earth! [mass 

Cain. While is it? I see nothing save u 
Of most innumerable lights. 

Lucifer. Look there! 

Cain. I cannot see it. 

Lucifer. Yet it sparkles still. 

Cain. That! — yonder! 
Lucifer. Yea. 

Cain. And wilt thou tell me so? 

Why, I have seen the fire-flies and fire-wormn 
Sprinkle the dusky groves and the g) ten banks 
In the dim twilight, brighter than ; on world 
Which bears them. 



114 



CAIN. 



Lucifer. Thou hast seen both worms and 

worlds, [of them ? 

Kaeh bright and sparkling — what dost think 

Cain. That they are beautiful in their own 
sphere, 
£ «d that the night, which make* both beautiful, 
J he little shining Ine-rly in its fight, 
And the immortal star in its great course, 
A ust both be guided. 

Lucifer. But by whom or what ? 

Cain. Sturw aie. 

Lucifer. Dar'st thou behoH ? 

Cain. Plow know 1 what 

I dare behold? As yet, thou hast shown nought 
I dare not gaze on further. 

Lucifer. On, then, with me. 

Wouldst thou behold things mortal or immortal ? 

Cain. Why, what are things ? 

Lucifer. Both partly : but what doth 

Sit next thy heart ? 

Cain. The things I see. 

Lucifer. But what 

Sate nearest it ! 

Cain. The things I have not seen, 

Nor ever shall — the mysteries of death. 

Lucifer. What, if I show to thee things 
which have died, 
A» I have shown thee much which cannot die ? 

Cain. Do so 

Lucifer. Away, then ! on our mighty wings. 

Cain. Oh! how we cleave the blue! The 
stars fade from us! 
The earth! where is my earth? Let me look 

on it, 
For I was made of it. 

Lucifer. 'T is now beyond thee, 

Less, in the universe, than thou in it; 
Yet deem not that thou canst escape it ; thou 
Shalt soon return to earth, and all its dust: 
T is part of thy eternity, and mine. 

Cain. Where dost thou lead me? 

Lucifer. To what was before thee ! 

The phantasm of the world ; of which thy world 
Is but the wreck. 

Cain. What! is it. not then new? 

Lucifer. No more than life is ; and that wa* 
ere thou 
Or I were, or the things which seem to us 
Greater than either: many things will have 
No end ; and some, which would pretend to have 
Had no beginning, have had one as mean 
As thou; and mightier things have been extinct 
To make way for much meaner than we can 
Surmise; for moments only and the space 
Have been ana must be all unchangeable. 
But changes m<ike not death except, to clav^; 



But thou art clay, — and canst but comprehend 

That which was clay, and such thou shall 

behold. [survc\ 

Cain. Clay, spirit what thou wilt, 1 can 

Lucifer. Away, then! 

Cain. But the lights fade from me fast, 
And some till now g.ew larger as we ap- 

proach'd, , 
And wore the look of worlds. 

Lucifer. And such they are 

Cain. And Edens in them? 

Lucifer. It may be. 

Cain. And men? 

Lucifer. Yea, or things higher. 

Cain. Ay? and serpents too? 

Lucifer. Wouldst thou have men without 
them? must no xeptiles 
Breathe save the erect ones? 

Cain. How the lights recede. 

Where fly we? 

Lucifer. To the world of phantoms, which 
Are beings past, and shadows still to come. 

Cain. But it grows dark and dark — the stars 
are gone! 

Lucifer. And yet thou seest 

Cain. 'T is a fearful light ! 

No sun, no moon, no lights innumerable. 
The very blue of the empurpled nignt 
Fades to a dreary twilight, yet I see 
Huge dusky masses: but unlike the worlds 
We were approaching, which, begirt with light, 
Seem'd full of life even when their atmosphere 
Of light gave way, and show'd them taking 

shapes 
Unequal, of deep valleys and vast mountains : 
And .some emitting sparks, and some displaying 
Enormous liquid plains, and some begirt 
With luminous belts, and floating moons, wnii-h 

took, 
Like them, the features of fair earth: — instead 
All here seems dark and dreadful. 

Lucifer. But distinct 

Thou seekest to behold death, and dead things? 

Cain. I seek it not; but as I know there are 
Such, and that my sire's sin makes him ami me 
And all that we inherit, liable 
£o such, I would behold at once, what I 
Must one day see perforce. 

Lucifer. Behold! 

Cain. T is darkness. 

Lucifer. And so it shall be ever; but wewiU 
Unfold its gates ! 

Cain. Enormous vapours rol) 

Apart — what's this? 

Lucifer. Enter! 

Cain. Can I return* 



CAIN. 



115 



Ltccifcr. Return' be sure: how else should 
death be peopled? 
Its present realm is thin to what it will be, 
Through thee and thine. 

Cain. The clouds still open wide 

And wider, and make widening circles round 
us. 
Lucifer. Advance! 
Cain. And thou! 

Lucifer. Fear not — without me thou 

Couldst not have gone beyond thy world. 
On! on! 
[They disappear through the clouds. 



SCENE II. 

Hades. 9 

Enter Lucifer and Cain. 

Cain. How silent and how vast are these 

dim worlds ! [peopled 

For they seem more than one, and yet more 

Than the huge brilliant luminous orbs which 

swung * 

So thickly in the upper air, that I 
Had deem'd them rather the bright populace 
Of some all unimaginable heaven, 
Than things to be inhabited themselves, 
But that on drawing near them I beheld 
Their swelling into palpable immensity [on, 
Of matter, which seem'd made for life to dwell 
Rather than life itself. But here, all is 
So shadowy and so full of twiiight, that 
It speaks of a day past. 

Lucifer. It is the realm 

Of death. — Wouldst have it present? 

Cain. 'Till I know 

That which it really is, I cannot answer. 
But if it be as I have heard my father 
Deal out in his long homilies, 't is a thing — 
Oh God! I dare not think on 't! Cursed be 
He who invented life that leads to death! 
Or the dull mass of life, that, being life, 
Could not retain, but needs must forfeit it — 
Even for the innocent ! 

Lucifer. Dost thou curse thy father ? 

Cain. Cursed he not me in giving me my 
birth ? 
Cursed he not me before my birth, in daring 
fo phu-k the fruit forbidden? 

Lucifer. Thou say'st well : 

The curse is mutual 'twixt thy sire and thee — 
But for thy sons and brother? 

Cain. Let them share it 

With me, their sire and brother ? What elss is 



Bequeath'd to me? I leave them my inheri- 
tance. 
Oh, ye interminable gloomy realms 
Of swimming shadows and enormous shapes, 
Some fully shown, some indistinct, and all 
Mighty and melancholy — what are ye ? 
Live ye, or have ye lived? 

Lucifer. Somewhat of both. 

Cain. Then what is death ? 
Lucifer. What ? Hath not he who madeye 
Said 't is another life? 

Cain. Till now he hath 

Said nothing, save that all shall die. 9 

Lucifer. Perhaps 

He one day will unfold that further secret. 
Cain. Happy the day! 

Lucifer. Yes; happy! when unfolded 

Through agonies unspeakable, and clogg'd 
With agonies eternal, to innumerable 
Yet unborn myriads of unconscious atoms 
All to be animated for this only ! [which I see 
Cain. What are these mighty phantoms 
Floating around me? — They wear not the form 
Of the intelligences I have seen . 
Round our regretted and unenter'd Eden, 
Nor wear the form of man as I have view'di} 
In Adam's, and in Abel's, and in mine, 
Nor in my sister-bride's, nor in my children's 
And yet thev have an aspect, which, though 

not* 
Of men nor angels, looks like something, which 
If not the last, rose higher than the first, 
Haughty, and high, and beautiful, and full 
Of seeming strength, but of inexplicable 
Shape ; for I never saw such. They bear not 
The wing of seraph, nor the face of man, 
Nor form of mightiesi brute, nor aught that is 
Now breathing; mighty yet and beautiful 
As the most beautiful and mighty which 
Live, and yet so unlike them, that I scarce 
Can call them living. 

Lucifer. Yet they lived. 

Cain. Where ? 

Lucifer. Where 

Thou livest. 

Cain. When ? 

Lucifer. On what thou callest earth 

They did inhabit. 

Cain. Adam is the first. 

Lucifer. Of thine, I grant thee — but to« 
mean to be 
The last of these. 

Cain. And what are they ? 

Lucifer. That whict: 

Thou shalt be. 

Cain But what were they ? 



116 



CAIN. 



L'icifer Living, high, 

Intelligent, good, great, and glorious things, 
As much superior unto all thy sire, 
Adam, could e'er have been in Eden, as 
The sixty-thousandth generation shall be, 
In its dull damp degeneracy, to [judge 

Thee and thy son ; — and how weak they are, 
By thy )wn flesh 

Cain. Ah me ! and did they perish ? 

Lucifer. Yes, from their earth, as thou wilt 
fade from thine. 

Cain. But was mine theirs? 

Lucifer. It was. 

Cain. But nor as now. 

It is too little and too low'.y to 
Sustain such creatures. 10 

Lucifer. True, it was more glorious. 

Cain. And wherefore did it fall ? 

Lucifer. Ask him who fells. 

Cain But how ? 

Lucifer. By a most crushing and inexorable 
Destruction and disorder of the elements, 
Which struck a world to chaos, as a chaos 
Subsiding has struck out a world : such things, 
Though rare in time, are frequent in eternity — 
Pass on, and gaze upon the past. 

Cain. 'T is awful ! 

Lucifer. And true. Behold these phantoms! 
they were once 
Material as thou art 

Cain And must I be 

Like them ? 

Lucifer. Let He who made thee answer that. 

show thee what thy predecessors are, 
And what they were thou feelest, in degree 
/ni'jrior as thy petty feelings and 
1'by pettier portion of the immortal part 
01' high intelligence and earthly strength. 
Wiat ye in common have with what they had 
»s life, and what ye shall have — death . the rest 

your poor attributes is such a* suits 
Reptiles engender'd out of the subsiding 
Sijne of a mighty universe, crush'd into 

A scarcely-yet shaped planet, peopled with 
"\*ungs whose enjoyment was to be in 

blindness — 
A Paradise of Ignorance, from which 
W lowledge was barr'd as poison. But behold 
What these superior beings are or were ; 
Or, if it irk thee, turn thee back and till 
The earth, thy task — 1 11 waft thee there in 
safety. 

Cain. No : I '11 stay here. 

Lucifer. How long? 

Cain. For ever' Since 

1 must one day return here ."torn the earth, 



I rather would remain ; I am sick of all 
That dust has shown me — let me dwell in 
shadows. 

Lucifer. It cannot be : thou now beholdestas 
A vision that which is reality. 
To make thyself tit for this dwelling, thuii 
Must pass through what the things thou see si 

have pass'd — 
The gates of deatn. [enter'd 

Cain. By what gate have we 

Even now? 

Lucifer. By mine ! But, plighted to return, 
My spirit buoys thee up to breathe in regions 
Where all is breathless save thyself. Gam- on ; 
But do hot think to dwell here till thine hour 
Is come. [repass 

Cain. And these, too; can they ne er 
To earth again? 

Lucifer. Their earth is gone for ever — 
So changed by its convulsion, they would not 
Be conscious to a single present spot 
Of its new scarcely harden'd surface — 't was — 
Oh, what a beautiful world it was! 

Cain. And is. 

It is not with the earth, though I must lill it, 
I feel at war, but that I may not profit 
By what it bears of beautiful untoiling, 
Nor gratify my thousand swelling thoughts 
With knowledge, nor allay my thousand fears 
Of death and life 

Lucifer. What thy world is, thou see'st, 
But canst not comprehend the shadow of 
That which it was. 

Cain. And those enormous creatures, 

Phantoms inferior in intelligence [pass'd. 

(At least so seeming) to the things we have 
Resembling somewhat the wild habitants 
Of the deep woods of earth, the hugest which 
Roar nightly in the forest, but ten-fold 
In magnitude and terror ; taller than 
The cherub-guarded walls of Eden, with 
Eyes flashing like the fiery swords which 

fence them, 
And tusks projecting like the trees stripp'd ol 
Their bark and branches — what were they ? 

Lucifer That which 

The Mammotn is m tny world ; — but these Ae 
By myriads underneath its surface. 

Cain But 

None on it? 11 

Lucifer. No : for thy frail race to war 
With them would render the curse on it 

useless — 
'T would be destroy'd so early. 

Cain. But why war f 

Lucifer. You have forgotten the denunciatio* 



CAIN. 



117 



Which drove your race from Eden — war with 

all things, [things, 

And death to all things, and disease to most 

And pangs, and bitterness; these were the 

fruits 
Of the forbidden tree. 

Cain. But animals — 

DhI they, toe , eat of it, thut they must die ? 
Lucifer. \ our Maker told ye, they were 
made for you, [doom 

As you for him. — You would not have their 
Superior to your own ? Had Adam not 
Fallen, all had stood. 

Cain Alas ! the hopeless wretches ! 

They too must share my sire's fate, like his 

sons ; [ apple ; 

Like them, too, without having shared the 

Like them, too, without the so dear-bought 

knowledge ! 
It was a lying tree — for we know nothing. 
At least it promised knowledge at the price 
Of death — but knowledge still : but what 
knows man? [knowledge; 

Lucifer. It may be death leads to the highest 
And being of all things the sole thing certain, 
At least leads to the surest scien-ce : therefore 
The tree was true, though deadly 

Cain. These dim realms! 

I see them, but I know them not. 

Lucifer. Because 

Thy hour is yet afar, and matter cannot 
Comprehend spirit wholly — but 't is something 
To know there are such realms. 

Cain. We knew already 

That there was death. 

Lucifer. Bat not what was beyond it. 

Cain. Nor know I now. 
Lucifer Thou knowest that there is 

A state, and many states beyond thine own— 
And this thou knewest not this morn. 

Cain But all 

eems dim and shadowy 

Lucifer. Be content ; it will 

eem clearer to thine immortality. 

Cain. And yon immeasurable liquid space 

Of glorious azure which floats on beyond us, 

Which looks like water, and which I should 

deem 
The river which flows out of Paradise 
Past my own dwelling, but that it is bankless 
And boundless, and of an ethereal hue — 
What is it? 

Lucifer. There is still some such on earth, 
Although inferior, and thy children shall 
Dwell nrar it — 't is the phantasm of an ocean. 
Caw. V is like another world ; a liquid sun — 



And those inordinate creatures sporting o'er 
Its shining surface? 

Lucifer. Are its inhabitants, 

The past leviathans. 

Cain. And yon immense [vastj 

Serpent, which rears its dripping ma.-.e aim 
Head ten times higher than the haughtiest 

cedar 
Forth from the abyss, looking as he could coil 
Himself around the orbs we lately look'd on — 
Is he not of the kind which bask'd beneath 
The tree in Eden ? 

Lucifer. Eve, thy mother, be.'*. 

Can tell what shape of serpent tempted V x 
Cain. This seems too terrible. No t» "cbl 
the other 
Had more of beauty. 
Lucifer. Hast thou ne er beheld h 

Cain. Many of the same kind (at leas • 
call'd), 
But never that precisely which persuaded 
The fatal fruit, nor even of the same aspec 
Lucifer. Your father saw him not ? 
Cain. No : *t was my motbt 

Who tempted him — she tempted by the serpen- 
Lucifer. Good man! whene'er thy wife, c 
thy sons' wives [strange 

Tempt thee or them to aught that's new o 
Be sure thou see'st first who hath tempted them 
Cain. Thy precept comes too late : there is 
no more 
For serpents* to tempt woman to. 

Lucifer. But there 

Are some things still which woman may temp" 

man to, 
And man tempt woman : — let thy sons look to 

it! 
My counsel is a kind one ; for 't is even 
Given chiefly at my own expense : 'tis true, 
'T will not be follow'd, so there's little lost. 
Cain. I understand not this. 
Lucifer. The happier thou !— 

Thy world and thou are still too young! 

Thou thinkest 
Thyself most wicked and unhappy : is it 
Not so ? 

Cain. For crime, I know not ; but for pain, 
I have felt much. 

Lucifer. First-born of the first man ! 

Thy present state of sin — and thou art evil, 
Of sorrow — and thou sufferest, are both Eden 
In all its innocence compared to what 
Thou shortly may'st be ; and that state again 
In its redoubled wretchedness, a Paradise 
To what thy sons' sons' sons accumulating 
In generations like to dust (which they 



118 



CAIN. 



In fact but add to), shall endure and do.— 
Now let us back to earth ! 

Cain. And wherefore didst thou 

Lead me here only to inform me this ? 

Lucifer. Was not thy quest for knowledge ? 

Cain. Yes ; as being 

The road to happiness. 

Lucifer. If trnth be so. 

Thou hast it. 

Cain. Then my father's God did well 

When he prohibited the fatal tree. 

Lucifer. But bad dime better in not planting 
it. 
^ut ignorance of evil doth not save 
i"'rom evil ; it must still roll on the same, 
A pan of all things. 

Cain. Not of all things. No : 

I '11 not believe it — for I thirst foj good. 

Lucifer. And who and what doth not? 
Who covets evil 
For its own bitter sake ? — None — nothing ! 't is 
The leaven of all life, and lifelessness. 

Cain. Within those glorious orbs which 
we behold, 
Distant, and dazzling, and innumerable, 
Ere we came down into this phantom realm, 
jll cannot come : they are loo beautiful. 

Lucifer. Thou hast seen them from afar — 

Cain. And what of that? 

Distance can but diminish glory — they, 
Vhen nearer, must be more ineffable. 

Lucifer. Approach the things of earth most 
beautiful, 
«nd judge their beauty near. 

Cain. I have done this — ■ 

The lov-eliest thing I know is loveliest nearest. 

Lucifer. Then there must be delusion. — 
What is that, 
Which being nearest to thine eyes is still 
More beautiful than beauteous things remote? 

Cain. My sister Adah. — A\\ the stars o» 
heaven, 
The deep blue noon of night, lit by an orb 
Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world — 
The hues of twilight — the sun's gorgeous 

coming — 
His setting indescribable, which fills 
My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold [him 
Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with 
Along that western paradise of clouds — 
The forest shade — the green bough — the bird's 

voice — 
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love, 
^ud mingles with the song of cherubim, 
As the day closes over Eden's walls ; — 
All these are nothing, to my eyes and heart, 



Like Adah's face: I turn from earth ani 

heaven 
To gaze on it. 

Lucifer. 'Tis fair as frail mortality, 

In the hrst dawn and bloom of young creation, 
And earliest embraces of earth's parents, 
Can make its otiVpring ; still it is demsion. 

Cain. You think so, being not her brother, 

Lucifer. JMoifu! 

My brotherhood's with those who have no 
children! 

Cain. Then thou canst have no fellowship 
with us. 

Lucifer. It may be that thine own shall be 
for me. 
But if thou dost possess a beautiful 
Being beyond all beauty in thine eyes, 
Why art thou wretched ? 

Cain. Why do I exist? 

Why art thou wretched ? why are all things so? 
Ev'n he who made us must be, as the maker 
Of things unhappy ! To produce destruction 
Can surely never be the task of joy, 
And yet my sire says he* 's omnipotent : 
Then why is evil — he being good ? 1 ask'd 
This question oi my lather; and he said, 
Because this evil only was the path [out 

To good. Strange good, that must arise irom 
Its deadly opposite. I lately saw 
A lamb stung by a reptile: the poor suckling 
Lay foaming on the earth, beneath the vani 
And piteous bleating of its restless dam ; 
My lather pluck'd some herbs, and laid them to 
The wound : andby degrees the helpless wretch 
Resumed its careless liie, and rose to drain 
The mother's milk, who o'er it tremulous 
Stood licking its reviving limbs with joy. 
Behold, my son! said Adam, how from evil 
Springs good ! 

Lucifer. What didst thou ansAver ? 

Cain. Nothing; IV 

He is my father : but I thought, that 't were 
A better portion lor the animal 
Never to have been stung at all, than to 
Purchase renewal of its little lite 
With agonies unutterable, though 
Dispell'd by antidotes. 

Lucifer. But as thou saidst 

Of all beloved things thou lovest hei 
Who shared thy mother's milk, and giveth hers 
Unto thy children 

Cain. Most assuredly : 

What should I be without her 1 

Lucifer. What am I : 

Cain. Dost thou love nothing? 

Lucifer What does thy God lore? 



CAIN, 



119 



Cain. All things, my fatter says ; out I 
confess 
I see il not in their allotment here, [if I love 

Lucifer. And, therefore, thou coast not see 
Or no, except some vast and general purpose, 
To which particular things must melt like 
snows 

Cain. Snows! what are they? 

Lucifer. Be happier in not knowing 

What thy remoter offspring must encounter ; 
But bask beneath the clime which knows no 
winter [like thyself? 

Cain. But dost thou not love something 

Lucifer. And dost thou love thyself? 

Cain. Yes, but love more 

What makes my feelings more endurable, 
And is more than myself, because I love it. 

Lucifer. Thou lovest it, because 't is beau 
tiful, 
As was the apple in thy mother's eye ; 
And when it ceases to be so, thy love 
Will cease, like any other appetite. [be? 

Cam. Cease to be beautiful! how can that 

Lucifer. With time. 

Cain. But time has past, and hitherto 

Even Adam and my mother both are fair: 
Not fair like Adah and the seraphim — 
But very fair. 

Lucifer. All that must pass away 

In them and her. 

Cain. I 'm sorry for it : but 

Cannot conceive my love for her the less. 
4nd when her beauty disappears, methinks 
fle who creates all beauty will lose more 
Than me in seeing perish such a work. 

Lucifer. I pity thee who lovest what must 
perish. 

Cam. And I thee who lov'st nothing. 

Lucifer. And thy brother — 

Sits he not near thy heart ? 

Cain. Why should he not ? 

Lucifer. Thy father loves him well — so does 
thy God. 

Cain. And so dc 1 

Lucifer. 'T is well and meekly done. 

Cain. Meekly! 

Lucifer. He is the second born of flesh, 
And is hia mother's favourite. 

Cain. Let him keep 

Her favour, since the serpent was the first 
To win it. 

Lucifer. And his father's? 

Cain. What is that 

To me? should I not love that which all love? 

Lucifer. And the Jehovah — the indulgent 
Lord. 



And bounteous planter of barr'd Paradise — 
He, too, looks smilingly on Abel. 

Cain. I 

Ne'er saw him, and I know not if he smiles. 

Lucifer But you have seen his angels. 

Cain. Rarely 

Lucifer. ];,„ 

Sufficiently to see they love your brother . 
His sacrifices are acceptable. 

Cain. So be they! wherefore speak to mt 
of this? 

Lucifer. Because thou hast thought of thii 
ere now. 

Cain. And if 

I have thought, why recall a thought that 

[he pannes, as agitated) — Spirit! 
Here we are in thy world: speak not of mine. 
Thou hast shown me wonders ; thou hast 

shown me those 
Mighty pre-Adamites who walk'd the earth 
Of which ours is the wreck ; thou hast pointed 

out 
Myriads ot starry worlds, of which our owb 
Is the dim and remote companion, in 
Infinity of life; thou hast shown me shadow* 
Of that existence with the dreaded name 
Which my sire brought us — Death ; thou has 

shown me much — 
But not all • show me where Jehovah dwells. 
In his especial Paradise, — or thine: 
Where is it? 

iAicijrr. Here, and o'er all space. 

Cain. But ye 

Have some allotted dwelling — as all things ; 
Clay has its earth, and other worlds theii 

tenants; 
All temporary breathing creatures their 
Peculiar element; and things which have 
Long ceased to breathe our breath, have theirs 

thou say'st ; 
And the Jehovah and thyself have thine — 
Ye do not dwell together? 

Lucifer. No, we reign 

Together; but our dwellings are asunder. 

Cain. Would there were only one of ye. 
perchance 
An unity of purpose might make union 
In elements which seem now jarr'd in storms* 
How came ye, being spirits, wise and infinite, 
To separate? Are ye not as brethren in 
Vouressenee, and your nature, and your glory? 

Lucifer. Art tbou not Abel's brother? 

Cain. We are brethren, 

And so we shall remain ; but were it not so. 
Is spirit like to flesh ? can it fall out? 
Infinity with Immortality? 



120 



CAIN. 



Jarring and turning space to misery — 
For what ? 

Lucifer. To reign. 

Cain. Did ye not tell me that 

e are both eternal? 

Lucifer. Yea ! 

Cain. And what I have seen, 

on blue immensity, is boundless? 

Lucifer. Ay. 

Cain. And cannot ye both reign then? — 
is there not 
Enough ? — why should ye differ ? 

Lucifer. We both reign 

Cain. But one of you makes evil. 

Lucifer. Which? 

Cain. Thou! ioi 

If thou canst do man good, why dost thou not ? 

Lucifer. And why not he who made ? I 
made ye not : 
Ye are his creatures, and not mine. 

Cain. Then leave us 

LI is creatures, as thou say'st we are, or show me 
Thy dwelling, or his dwelling. 

Lucifer. I could show thee 

Both; but the time will come thou shah see one 
Of them for evermore. 

Cain. And why not now ? 

Lucifer. Thy human mind hath scarcely 
grasp to gather 
The little I have shown thee into calm 
And clear thought ; and thou wouldst go on 

aspiring 
To the great double Mysteries ! the two Prin- 
ciples ." 2 
And gaze upon them on their secret thrones ! 
Dust! limit thy ambition; ior to see 
Either of these, would be for thee to perish ! 

Cain. And let me perish, so I see them ! 

Lucifer. There 

The son of her who snatch'd the apple spake ! 
But thou wouldst only perish, and not see them ; 
That sight is for the other state. 

Cain. Of death? 

Lucifer. That is the prelude. 

Cain. Then I dread it less, 

Now that I know it leads to something definite 

Lucifer. And now I will convey thee to thy 

world. 

Where thou shaft multiply the race of Adam, 

Eat, drink, toil, tremble, laugh, weep, sleep, 

and die. finings 

Cain. And to what end have I beheld these 
Which thou hast shown me ? 

Lucifer. Didst thou not require 

Knowledge ? And have I not, in what I show'd, 
Taught thee to know thyself? 



Cain. A' as! I sewn 

Nothing. 

Lucifer. And this should be the human sun> 
Of knowledge, to know mortal nature s no 

thingness : 
Bequeath that science to thy children, and 
'T will spare them many tortures. 

Cain. Haughty spirit 

Thou spjak'st it proudly ; but thysell, though 

proud, 
Hast a superior. 

Lucifer. No ! by heaven, which He 

Holds, and the abyss, and the immensity [No! 
Of worlds and life, which I hold with him — 
1 have a victor — true; but no superior. 
Homage he has from all — but none Iron me 
I battle it against him, as I battled 
In highest heaven. Through all eternity,. 
And the unfathomable gulfs of Hades, 
And the interminable realms of space. 
And the infinity of endless ages, 
All, all, will I dispute ! And world by wort* 
And star by star, and universe by universe, 
Shall tremble in the balance, till the great 
Conflict shall cease, if ever it shall cease, 
Which it ne'er shall, till he or I be quench 'd 
And what can quench our immortality, 
Or mutual and irrevocable hate? 
He as a conqueror will call tne conquer'd 
Evil; but what will be the good he gives? 
Were I the victor, his works would be deem'd 
The only evil ones. And you, ye new [gilts 
And scarce born mortals, what have been his 
To you already, in your little world ? 13 

Cain But lew ! and some of those but bitter. 

Lucifer. Back 

With me, then, to thine earth, and try the 

rest 
Of his celestial boons to you and yours. 
Evil and good are things in their own essence, 
And not made good or evil by the giver ; 
But if he gives you good — so call him ;. if 
Evil springs from him, do not name it mine, 
Till ye know better its true fount ; and judge 
Not "by words, though of spirits, but the irui; 
Of your existence, such as it must be. 
One good gift has the fatal apple given— 
Your reason: — let it not be over sway Q 
By tyrannous threats to force yon into faiUJ 
'Gainst all external sense and inward feei.njj 
Think and endure. — and form an inner worl 
In your own bosom — where the uatwur*, 

fails ; 
So shall you nearer be the spiritual 
Nature, and war triumphant with your own 
Illiey ditappe*' 



CAIN. 



121 



ACT III. 

SCENE J. , 

Ti* Earth near Eden, as in Act I. 

Enter Cain and Adah. 
Adah. Hush! tread softly, Cain. 
Cain. I will j but wherefore? 

Adah. Our little Enoch sleeps upon yon bed 
Of leaves, beneath the cypress. 

Cain. Cypress! 'tis 

A gloomy tree, which looks as if it mourn 'd 
O'er what it shadows ; wherefore didst thou 

choose it 
For our child's canopy? 

Adah. Because its branches 

Shut out the sun like night, and therefore 

seem'd 
Fitting to shadow slumber 

Cain. Ay, the last — 

And longest ; but no matter — lead me to him 
[They go up to the child. 
How lovely he appears! his little cheeks, 
in their pure incarnation, vying with 
The rose leaves strewn beneath them. 

Adah. And his lips, too, 

How beautifully parted ! No ; you shall not 
Kiss him, at least not now: he will awake 

soon — 
His hour of mid-day rest is nearly over ; 
But it were pity to disturb him till 
T is closed. 

Cain. You have said well ; I will contain 
My heart till then. He smiles, and sleeps !— 

Sleep on 
And smile, thou little, young inheritor [smile ! 
Of a world scarce less young-: sleep on, and 
Thine are the hours and days when both are 

cheering 

And innocent ! <Ao«hastnotpluck'd the fruit — 

nou krnv'st not thou ait naked ' Must the 

time 

Come thou shalt be amerced for sins unknown, 

Which were not mine nor thine? But now 

sleep on ! 
His cheeks are reddening into deeper smiles, 
And shining lids are trembling o'er his long 
Lashes, dark as the cypress which waves o'er 

them ; 
Half open, from beneath them die clear blue 
waughs out, although in sl-unber. He must 

dream — 
Of what ? Of Paradise !— A) ! dream of it, 
My disinherited boy ! 'T is Vut a dream ; 



For never more thyself, thy sons, nnr fathcs, 
Shall walk in that forbidden place of joy! 

Adah. Dear Cain ! Nay, do not whispe. 
o'er our son • 

Such melancholy yearnings o'er the past: 
Why wilt thou always mourn for Paradise ? 
Can we not make another? 

Cain. Where? 

Adah. Here, 01 

Where'er toi >u wilt : where er thou art, I feel no 
The want of this so much regretted Eden. 
Have I not tuee, our boy, our sire, and brother. 
And Zillah — our sweet sister, and our Eve, 
To whom we owe so much besides our birth? 

Cain. Yes — death, too, is amongst the 
debts we owe her. [drew thee hence, 

Adah. Cain ! that proud spirit, who with 
Hath sadden'd thine still deeper. I had hopeV 
The promised wonders which thou hast beheld 
Visions, thou say'st, of past and present, worlds 
Would have composed thy mind into the calnf 
Of a contented knowledge ; but 1 see [him, 
Thy guide hath done thee evil: still I thank 
And civn forgive him all. that he so soon 
Hath given thee back to us. 

Cain. So soon ? 

Adah. 'T is so&adWJ 

Two hours since ye departed : two long hours 
To me, but only liours upon the sun. 

Cain. And yet I have approach'd that sun, 
and seen 
Worlds which he once shone on, and nevermore 
Shallhght; and worlds he never lit: methought 
Years had roll'd o'er my absence. 

Adah. Hardly hours. 

Cain. The mind then hath capacity ofthrm. 
And measures it by that which it beholds, 
Pleasing or painful ; little or almighty 
I had beheld the immemorial works 
Of endless beings; skirr'd extinguished worlds; 
And, gazing on eternity, methought 
I had bcrrow'd more by a lew drops of ages 
From its immensity ; but now I feel 
My littleness again. Well said the spirit, 
That 1 was nothing ! 

Adah. Wherefore said he so? 

Jehovah said not that. 

Cain. No : he contents hin: 

With making us the nothing which we are ; 
And alter nattering dust with glimpses of 
Eden and Immortality, resolves 
It back to dust again — for what ? 

Adah. Thou know st— < 

Even for our parents' error 

Cain. What is thai 

To us* thev sinn'd. then let them die! 



122 



CAIN. 



Adah. Thau hast not spoken well, nor is 
tnat thought 
Thy own, hut of the spirit who was with thee. 
Would J could die for them, so they might live ! 
Cc n. Why, so suy I — provided that one 
victim 
Might sat-ate the insatiable of life, 
And that our little rosy sleeper there 
iiight never taste of death nor human sorrow 
Nor hand it down to those who spring from him. 
Adah. How know we that seme such atone 
ment one day 
May not redeem our race? 

Cain. By sacrificing 

The harmless for th-; guilty? what atonement 
Were there? why, we are innocent: what 

have we 
Done, that we must he victims for a deed 
Before our birth, or need have victims lo 
Atone for this mysterious, nameless sin — 
If it be such a s\u f> seek for knowledge? 
Adah. Alas! thou sinnest now, my Cain: 
thy words 
Sound impious in mine ears. 

Cain. Then leave me ! 

Adah. Never, 

Tnough thy God left thee. 

Cain. Say, what have we here ? 

Adah. Two altars, which our brother Abel 
made 
During thine absence, whereupon to offer 
A sacrifice to God on thy return. 

Cain. And how knew he, that I would be 
so ready 
With the burnt offerings, which he daily brings 
With a meek brow, whose base humility 
Shows more of fear than worship, as a bribe 
To the Creator? 

Adah. Surely, 't is well done. 

Cain. One altar may suffice ; / have no 

offering. 
Adah. The fruits of the earth, the early, 
beautiful 
Blossom and bud, and bloom of flowers and 

fruits, 
These are a goodly offering to the Lord, 
Given with a gentle and a contrite spirit. 
Cain. I have toil'd, and till'd, and sweaten 
in the sun 
According to the curse: — mast I do more? 
For what should I be gentle ? lor a war 
With all the elements ere they will yield 
The bread we eat ? For what must I be grateful . 
For being dust, and grovelling in the dust, 
Till I return to dust? If I am nothing — 
For nothing shall I be an hypocrite, 



And seem well-pleased with pain ? For wha 

should I 
Be contrite ? lor my father's sin, already 
Expiate with what we all have undergone, 
And to be more than expiated by 
The ages prophesied, upon our seed. 
Little deems our young blooming pleeper, lh«rfi 
The germs of an eternal misery 
To myriads is within him ! better 't were 
Isnatch'd him in his sleep, and dash'd 1 i 
'gainst 

The rocks, than let him live to 

Adah. Oh, my God 1 

Touch not the child — my child ! tky child : 

Oh Cain ! [powei 

Cain. Fear not ! for all the stars, and all the 

Which sways them, I would not accost you 

infant 
With ruder greeting than a father's kiss. 
Adah. Then, why so awful in thy speech ? 
Cain. I said, 

'T were better that he ceased to .ive, than give 
Life to so much of sorrow as he must 
Endure, and, harder still, bequeath; but since 
That saying jars you, let us only say — 
'T were better that he never had been bcrn. 
Adah. Oh, do not say so ! Where were 
then the joys, 
The mother's joys of watching, nourishing, 
And loving him? Soft! he awakes. Sweet 
Erioch ! tShe goes to the child. 

Oh Cain! look on him ; see how lull of 'ife, 
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy. 
How like to me — howlike to thee, wher <- .title, 
For then we are all alike: is 't not so, Cain? 
Mother, and sire, and son, our features are 
Reflected in each other : as they are 
In the clear waters, when they are gentle, and 
When thou art gentle. Love us, then, my Cain ! 
And love thyself for our sakes, lor we love ir.t 
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his ;«-ms 
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine, 
To hail his father; while his little lorm 
Flutters as wing'd with joy. Talk not of pain 
The childless cherubs well might envy thee 
The pleasures of a parent ! Bless him, Cain ' 
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but 
His heart will, and thine own too. 

Cain. Bless thee, boy 

If that a mortal blessing may avail thee, 
To save thee from the serpent's curse ! 

Adah. It shall 

Surely a father's blessing may avert 
A reptile's subtlety. 

Cain. Of that I doubt ; 

But bless him ne'er the less. 



CAIN. 



12: 



Ada h Our brother comes. 

Cain. Thy brother Abel. 

Enter Abel. 
Abel. Welcome, Cain ! My brother, 

The peace of God be on thee ! 

Cain. Abel, hail ! 

Abel. Our sister tells me that thou hast been 
wandering, 
In high communion with a spirit, far 
Beyond our wonted range. Was he of those 
We have seen and spoken with, like to our 
father? 
Cain. No. [may be 

Abel. Why then commune with him? he 
A foe to the Most High 

Cain. And friend to man. 

Has the Most High been so — i f so you term him ? 
Abel. Term him! your words are strange 
to-day, my brother. 
My sister Adah, leave us for awhile — 
We mean to sacrifice. 

Adah. Farewell, my Cain ; 

But tirst embrace thy son. May his soft spirit, 
And Abel's pious ministry, recall thee 
To peace and ho'iness ! 

\_Exit Adah, with her child. 
Abel. Where hast thou been? 

Cain. I know not. 

Abel. Nor what thou hast seen ? 

Cain. The dead, 

The immortal, the unbounded, the omnipotent, 
The overpowering mysteries of space — 
The innumerable worlds that were and are — 
A whirlwind of such overwhelming things, 
Suns, moons, and earths, upon their loud 

voiced spheres 
Singing in thunder round me, as have made me 
Unlit for mortal converse : leave me, Abel. 
Abel. Thine eyes are flashing with unnatural 
light— 
Thy cheek is flush'd with an unnatural hue — 
Thy words are fraught with an unnatural 

sound — 
What may this mean ? 

Cain. It means 1 pray thee, leave me. 

Abel. Not till we have pray' d and sacrificed 

together. 
Cain. Abel, 1 pray thee, sacrifice alone — 
Jehovah loves thee well. 

Abel. Both well, I hope. 

Cain. Bnttheefhebetter: I care not for that; 
Thou art fitter for his worship than I am ; 
Revere lini, then — but let it be alone — 
At least without m;. 
Abel. Brother, I should ill 



Deserve the name of our great father's son, 
If, as my elder, I revered thee not. 
And in the worship of our God call'd not 
On thee to join me, and precede me in 
Our priesthood — 't is thy place. 

Cain. But I have ne'ej 

Asserted it. 

Abel. The more ny grief; I pray thee 

To do so now : thy soul seems labouring in 
Some strong delusion ; it will calm thee. 

Cain. No ; 

Nothing can calm me more. Calm! sav I ? 

Never 
Knew I what calm was in the soul, although 
I have seen the elements still'd. My Abel, leave 

me ! 
Or let me leave thee to thy pious purpose. 
Abel. Neither ; we must perform our task 
together. 
Spurn me not. 

Cain. If it must be so well, then 

What shall I do ? 

Abel. Choose one of those two altars. 

Cain. Choose for me : they to me are sn 
much turf 
And stone. 

Abel. Choose thou ! 

Cain. I bave chosen. 

Abel. ■ "Tis the highest, 

And suits thee, as the elder Now prepare 
Thine offerings. 

Cain. Where are thine ? 

Abel. Behold them here- 

The firstlings of the flock, and fat thereof — 
A shepherd's humble offering. 

Cain. I have no flocks 

I am a tiller of the ground, and must 
Yield what it yieldeth to my toil — its fruit 

[He gathers fruits 
Behold them in their various bloom anc 
ripeness. 

[Tltey dress their altars, and kindle c 
jtame upon them. 
Abel. My brother, as the elder, offer first 
Thy prayer and thanksgiving with sacrifice. 
Cain. No — I am new to this ; lead thou 
the way, 
And I will follow — as I may. 

Abel [kneeling). Oh God ' 

Who made us, and who breathed the breatl 

of life 
Within our nostrils, who hath blessed us 
And spared, despite our father's sin, to make 
His children all lost, as they might have been 
Had not thy justice been so temper'd with 
The mercy which is thy delight, as to 



124 



CAIN. 



Aconrd a pardon like a Paradise, [of light! 
Compared with our great crimes: — Sole Lord 

good, and glory, and eternity; 

Without whom all were evil, and with whom 
Nothing can en - , except to some good end 
O. thine omnipotent benevolence — 
Inscrutable, but still to be fulfill'd — 
Accept from out thy bumble first of shepherd's 
First of the first-born flocks — an offering, 
In itself nothing — as what offering can be 
Aught unto thee? — but yet accept it for 
The thauKsgiving of him who spreads it in 
The face of thy high heaven, bowing his own 
Even to the dust, of which he is, in honour 
Of thee, and of thy name, for evermore ! 

Cain (standing erect during thin speech). 
Spirit ! whate'er or whosoe'er thou art, 
Omnipotent, it may be — and, if good, 
Shown in the exemption of thy deeds from evil ; 
Jehovah upon earth ! and God in heaven, 
And it may be .with other names, because 
Thine attributes seem many, as thy works: — 
If thou must be propitiated with prayers, 
Takethem! If thou must be iuduced with altars, 
\nd soften'd with a sacrifice, receive them ! 
Two beings here erect them unto thee. 
If thou lov'st Mood, the shepherd's shrine 

which smokes 
On my right hand, hath shed it for thy service 
In the first of his flock, whose limbs now reek 
In sanguinary incense to thy skies , 
Or if the sweet and blooming fruits of earth, 
And milder seasons, which the unstain'd turf 

1 spread them on now offers in the face 

Of the broad sun which ripen'd them, may seem 
Good to thee, inasmuch as they have not 
Suffer'd in limb or life, and rather form 
A sample of thy works, than supplication 
To look on ours ! If a shrine without victim, 
And altar without gore, may win thy favour, 
Look on it ! and for him who dresseth it, 
He is — such as thou inad'st him; and seeks 

nothing 
Which must be won by kneeling if he's evil, 
Strike him ! thou art omnipotent, and may'st — 
For what can he oppose ? If he be good, 
Strike him, or spare him, as thouwiit! since all 
Rests upon thee ; and good and evil seem 
To have no power themselves, save in thy will ; 
And whether that be good or ill I know not, 
Not being omnipotent, nor tit to judge 
Omnipotence, but merely to endure 
Its mandate; which thus far I have endured. 
{The fire upon the altar of Abel 
kindles into a column of the 
brigWest Jlame. and ascends to 



heaven , while a whit witut 
throws down the altar of Cain, 
and scatters the fruits abroaa 
upon the earth. 
Abel, {kneeling). Oh, brother, pray! Jelv 

vah's wroth with thee. 
Cain. Why so ? 

Abel. Thy fruits are scatter'd on the eai th. 
Cain. From earth they came, to earth .'el 
them return; fsumnie. 

Their seed will bear fresh fruit there ere th« 
Thy burnt flesh-off'ring prospers better ; see 
How heav'n licks up the flames, when thick 
with blood ! 
Abel. Think not upon my offering's accept- 
ance, 
But make another of thine own before 
It is too late 

Cain. I will build no more altars, 

Nor suffer any. — 

Abel (rising). Cain! what meanest thou? 
Cain. To cast down you vile flatterer o 
the clouds, 
The smoky harbinger of thy dull pray'rs— 
Thine altar, with its blood of lambs and kids 
Which fed on milk, to be destroy 'd in blood. 
Abel (opposing him). Thou shaltnot: — add 
not impious works to impious 
Words ! let that altar stand — 'tis hallow'd now 
By the immortal pleasure of Jehovah. 
In his acceptance of the victims. 

Cain. His! 

His pleasure! what was his high pleasure ill 
The fumes of scorching Mesh and smoking blood 
To the pain of the bleating mothers, which 
Still yearn for their dead offspring ? or the pang* 
Of the sad ignorant victims underneath 
Thy pious knife? Give way! this bloody recorti 
Shall not stand in the sun, to shame creation ' 
Abel. Brother, give back! thou shalt no) 
touch my altar 
With violence: if that thou wilt adopt it, 
To try another sacrifice, 't is thine. 

Cain. Another sacrifice! Give way, or else 

That sacrifice may be 

Abel. What mean'st thou! 

Cain. Gi\e— 

Give way! — thy God loves blood! — then looi 

" to it :— 
Give way, ere he hath more! 

Abel. In his great name. 

I stand between thee and the shrine which hath 
Had his acceptance. 

Cain. If thou lov st thyself, 
Stand back till I have strew'd tb is turf pimp 
Its native soil;— els e - 



CAIN. 



12; 



Abel [opposing him). I love God far more 
fn^ii lie. 

(striking him with a brand, on the 

temples, which lie snatches from the 

altar). 

Cain. Then take thy Hie unto thy God, 

Since he loves lives. [brother? 

Abel (falls). What hast thou done, my 

Cain. Brother! 

Abel. Oh, G'"d ! receive thy servant, and 
forgive his slayer, for he knew not. what 
He did — Cain, give me — give me thy hand; 
and tell 

Poor Zillah 

Cain (after a moment's stupefaction). My 
hand ! 'tis all red, and with — 
What? 

[A long pause. — Looking slowly 

round. 

"Where am I? alone! Where 's Abel ? where 

Cain? Can it be that I am he ? My brother, 

Awake! — why licst thou soon the green earth? 

'T is not the hour of slumber ;— why so pale ? 

What, hast thou! thou wert full of life 

this morn ! 
Abel! I pray thee, mock me not! I smote 
Too fiercely, but not fatally. Ah, why 
Wouldst thou oppose me? This is mockery; 
'ind only done to daunt me : — 't was a blow — 
And but a blow. Stir — stir — nay, only stir ! 
Why, so — that's well! — thou breath'st ! breathe 

upon me! 
Oh, God! Oh, God! [of God? 

Abel {very faintly). What 's he who speaks 
Cain. Thy murderer. 

Abel. Then may God forgive him! Cain, 
Comfort poor Zillah: — she has but one brother 
Now. [Ah el dies. 

Cain. And I none! — Who makes me bro- 
therless ? 
His eyes are open! then he is not dead! [lids. 
Death is like sleep; and sleep shuts down our 
His lips, too, are apart ; why then he breathes ! 
A.nd yet I feel it not. — His heart ! — his heart ! — 

Let me see, doth it beat? methinks No ! — 

no ! 
This : s a vision, else I am become 
The native of another and worse world. 
The earth swims round me: — what is this? — 
'tis wet; 

[Puts his hand to his brow, and 
then looks at it. [blood — 

And yet there are no dews! 'T is blood — my 
My brother's and my own ! and shed by me ! 
Then what have I further to do with life, 
Since I have taken life from my own flesh ? 



But he can not be dead! — Is silence c?ath' 
No; he will wake: then let me watc i ly iii:n 
Life cannot be so slight, as to be queue li'd 
Thus quickly ! — he hath spoken to me since — 
What shall I say to him?— My brother! — No 
He will not answer to that name; for brethren 
Smite not ci:ch other. Yet — yet — speak to ore 
Oh! for a word more of that gentle voice. 
That I may bear to hear my own again ' 

Enter Zillah. 
Zillah. I heard a heavy sound; what can it 

be? [What 

'T is Cain; and watching by my husband 
Dost thou there, brother? Doth he sleep ? 

Oh, heav'n! [No, no! 

What means this paleness, and yon stream ? — 
It is not blood ; for whowould shedhis blooa? 
Abel! what's this ! — who hath done this ? He 

moves not ; [from mine 

He breathes not': and his hands drop dow n 
With stony lifelessness ! Ah! cruel Cain ! 
Why cam'st thou not in time to save him from 
This violence? Whatever hath assail'd him. 
Thou wert the stronger, and should'st have 

stepp'd in 
Between him and aggression ! Father! — 

Eve ! — 
Adah ! — come hither ! Death is in the world 
[Exit Zillah, calling on her Parents, ftc 
Cain (solus). And who hath brought him 

there ? — I — who abhor 
The name nf Death so deeply, that the thought 
Empoison'd all my life, before I knew 
His aspect — I have led him here, and giv'n 
My brother to his cold and still.embraee, 
As if he would not have asserted his 
Inexorable claim without my aid 
I am awake at last — a dreary dream 
Had madden'd me ; — but he shall ne'er awake . 

Enter Adam, Eve, Adah, and Zillah. 
Adam. A voice of woe from Zillah bring; 
me here. — [son 

What do I see? — T is true! — My son ! — m> 
Woman, behold the serpent's work, and thine: 
[To Fve 
Eve. Oh! speak not of it now: the serpent'! 
fangs 
Are in my heart. My best beloved, Abel ' 
Jehovah ! this is punishment beyond 
A mother's sin, to take him from me ! 

Adam. Who 

Or what hath done this deed ? — speak, Coin 

since thou 
Wertp/esent ; was it some more hostile angel 



126 



CAIX. 



Who t^alks not with Jehovah? or some wild 
Brute of the forest ? 

Eve. Ah ! a livid light [brand, 

3reaks through, as from a thunder-cloud! yon 
Massy and bloody ! snatch'd from off the altar, 

And black with smoke, and red with ■ 

Adam. Speak, my son! 

Speak, and assure us, wretched as we are, 
i.1\at we are not more miserable still. 

Adah. Speak, Cain! and say it was not thou , 
Eve It was. 

I see it now — he hangs his guilty head, 
And covers his ferocious eye with hands 
Incarnadine 

Adah. Mother, thou dost him. wrong — 

Cain! clear thee from this horrible accusal, 
Which grief wrings from our parent. 

Eve. Hear, Jehovah ! 

May the eternal serpent's curse be on him ! 
For he was fitter for his seed than ours. 

Mav all his davs be desolate. May 

Adah. Hold! 

Curse him not, mother, for he is thy son — 
Curse him not, mother, for he is my brother, 
And my betroth'd. 

Eve. He hath left thee no brother — 

Zillah no husband — me no son ! — for thus 
[ curse him from my sight for evermore ! 
All bonds I break between us ! as he broke 

That of his nature, in yon Oh death! death! 

Why didst thou not take me. who first incurr'd 

thee ? 
Why dost thou not so now? 

Adam. Eve! let not this, 

Thy natural grief, lead to impiety ! 
A heavy doom was long forespoken to us ; 
And now that it begins, let it be borne 
In such sort as may show our God, that we 
Are faithful servants to his holy will. 

Eve (printing to Cain) His will' the will 
of yon incarnate spirit 
Of death, whom I have brought upon the earth 
To strew it with the dead. May all the curses 
Of life be on him! and his agonies 
Drive him forth o'er the wilderness, like us 
From Eden, till his children do by him 
As he did by his brother! May the swords 
And wings of fiery cherubim pursue him 
By day and night — snakes spring up in his 

path — 
Earth's fruits be ashes in his mouth — the leaves 
On which he lays his head to sleep be strew'd 
With scorpions ! May his dreams be of his 

victim! 
His waking a continual dread of death ! 
Mav the clear rivers turn to blood, as he 



Stoops down to stain them with his raging lip 
May every element shun or change to him '. 
May he live in the pangs which others die with ! 
And death itself wax something worse taan 

death 
To him who first acquainted him with man ! 
Plence, fratricide ! henceforth that word is Cain 
Through all the coming myriads of mankind, 
Who shall abhor thee, though thou wert theii 

sire ! 
May the grass wither from thy feet! the woods 
Deny thee shelter! earth a home ! the dust 
A grave! the sun his light! andheavenherGod' 
[Exit Evk 
Adam. Cain! get thee forth; we dwell no 
more together. 

Depart! and leave the dead to me 1 am 

Henceforth alone — we never must meet more. 
Adah. Oh, part not with him thus, m^ 
father: do not 
Add thy deep curse to Eve's upon his head! 
Adam. I curse him not: his spirit be his curse 
Come, Zillah' 

Zillah. I must watch my husband's corse. 
Adam. We will return again, when heisgonc 
Who hath provided for us this dread office. 
Come, Zillah. 

Zillah. Yet one kiss on yon pale clay, 

And those lips once so warm — my heart! my 
heart 
[Exeunt Adam and Zillah, weeping 
Adah. Uain ! thou hast heard, we must go 
forth. I am ready, 
So shall our children be. I will bear Enoch 
And you his sister. Ere the sun declines 
Let us depart, nor walk the wilderness 
Uuder the cloud of night. Nay, speak to me. 
To me — thine own. 

Cain. Leave me! 

Adah. Why, all have left thee 

Cain. And wherefore lingerest thou ? Do» 
thou not fear 
To dweil with one who hath done this? • 

Adah. I feaf 

Nothing except to leave thee, much as I 
Shrink from the deed which leaves thee brother 

less. 
I must not speak of this — it is between thee 
And the great God. 

A voice from within exclaims, Cain! Cain 
Adali. Hear' st thou that voice 

The voice within. Cain! Cain! 
Adah. It soundeth like an angel's tone 

Enter the Angel of the Lord. 
Angel. Where is thy brother Abel? 



CAIN. 



127 



Cain. Am I then 

My brother s keeper ? 

Angel. Cain! what hast thou done? 

The voice of thy slain brother's blood cries out, 
Even from the ground, unto the Lord! — Now 
art thou [mouth 

Cursed from the earth, which open'd late her 
To drink thy brother's blood from thy rash hand. 
Henceforth, when thou shalt till the ground, 

it shall not 
field thee her strength ; a fugitive shalt thou 
Be from this day, and vagabond on earth ! 
Adah. This punishment is more than he can 
bear. 
Behold, thou drivesthim from the face of earth, 
And from the face of God shall he be hid. 
A fugitive and vagabond on earth, 
"1' will come to pass, that whoso findeth him 
Shall slay him. 

Cain. Would they could ! but who are they 
Sh al 1 slay me ? Where are these on the lone earth 
As yet unpeopled? 

Angel. Thou hast slain thy brother, 

And who shall warrant thee against thy son ? 
Adah. Angel of Light ! be merciful, nor say 
That this poor aching breast now nourishes 
A murderer in my boy, and of his father, [is. 
Angel. Then he wouldbut be what his father 
Did not the milk of Eve give nutriment 
To him thou now see'st so besmear'd with blood? 
The fratricide might well engender parri- 
cides. — 
But it shall not be so — the Lord thy God 
And mine commandeth me to^ set his seal 
On .Cain, so that he may go forth in safety. 
Who slayeth Cain, a sevenfold vengeance shall 
Be taken on his head. Come hither! 

Cain. What 

Wouldst thou with me? 

Angel. To mark upon thy brow 

Exemption from such deeds as thou hast done. 
Cain. No, let me die! 
Angel. It must not be. 

[The Angel sets the mark on CAis'sbroio. 
Cain. It burns 

My brow, but nought to that which is within it. 
(s there more? let me meet it as 1 may. 
Angel. Stern hast thou been and stubborn 
from the womb, 
As the ground thou must henceforth till; buthe 
Thou slew'st was gentle as the flocks he tended 
Cain. Alter the fall too soon was I begotten; 
Ere yet my mother's mind subsided from 
The seipent, and my sire still mourn' d for 

Eden. 
That which I am, I am; I did not seek 



For life, nor did I make myself; but could I 
With my own death redeem him from the dust— 
And why not so? let him return to dav, 
And I lie ghastly! so .shall be restored" 
By God the life to him he loved; and taken 
From me a being I ne'er loved to bear. 

Angel. Who shall heal murder? what i. 
done is done; 
Go forth ! fulfil thy days ! and be thy deeds 
Unlike the last! [The Angel cUt-ajipeart 
Adah. He's gone, let us go forth • 

I hear our little Enoch cry within 
Our bower. 

Cain. Ah! little knows he what he weeps 
for ! 
And I who have shed blood cannot shea 

tears ! 
But the four rivers** would not cleanse my 

sold. 
Think'st thou my boy will bear *o look ojj 
me ? 
Adah. If 1 thought that he would not, 1 

would — 
Cain {interrupting her). No. 

No more of threats : we have had too many 

of them : 
Go to our children ; I will follow- thee ? 
Adah. I will not leave thee lonely with th* 
dead ; 
Let us depart together. 

Cain. Oh ! thou dead 

And everlasting witness ! whose unsinking 
Blood darkens earth and heaven ! what thou 

now ait 
I know not ! but if thou see'st what 7 am, 
I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God 
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul — 

Farewell ! 
I must not, dare not touch what I have mad-* 

thee. 
I, who sprung from the same womb with 

thee, drain'd 
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my 

own, 
fn fondness brotherly and boyish, I 
f m never meet thee more, n'oi even dare 
To do that for thee, which thou shouldsthavt 

done 
Forme — compose thy limbs into their grave — 
The first grave yet dug for mortality. 
But who hath dug that grave ? Oh, earth ' 

Oh, earth! 
For all the fruits thou hast render 'd to me, 1 
Give thee back this. — Now for the wilderness 
[AdaK stooj is dour, and •dssts tfa 
body <?/ Abkl. 



128 



CAIN. 



Adah. A dreary, and an early doom, my 

brother 
Has been thy lot ! Of all who mourn for thee 
I alone must not weep. My office is. 
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed 

them 
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn li ke 

me, 
Not only for thyself, but htm who slew thee 
Now, Cain ! I will divide thy burden with thee 
CaLi. Eastward from Eden will we take 

out way • 
Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps. 
Adah Ls&d 1 tftou shalt be my guide, and 

- ay our God 



Be thine ' Now le -is cany foith our chil 
dren 
Cain And he. who lieth there was child 
less. I 
Have dried the fountain of a geutle race, 
Which might have graced his recent marriage 

couch, 
And might have temper'd this stern blood < 

mine, 
Uniting with our ehi'.dren Abel's offspring-' 
O Abel ! 

Adah. Peace be with him ! 

Cain, But with me 



^uurs of Meness : 



A SERIES OF POEMS, ORIGINAL AND TRANSLATED 



Virginibus puerisqu; canto. — Horace, lib. iii. Ode 1. 

M^r' off pi pak' «Jm, fcr t ri <n niKU. — Homer, Iliad, x. 249. 

He whistled as he went, tor want of thought. — Dryden. 



PREFACE 

Iv svil mining to the public, eye the following 
collection, I have not only to combat the dif- 
ficulties that writers of verse generally en- 
counter, but may incur the charge of presump- 
tion for obtruding myself on the world, when, 
without doubt, I might be, at my age, more 
usefully employed. 

These productions are the fruits of the lighter 
hours of a young man who has lately com- 
pleted his nineteenth year. As they bear the 
internal evidence of a boyish mind, this is, 
perhaps, unnecessary information. Some few 
were written during the disadvantages of ill- 
ness and depression of spirits: under the former 
influence, " Childish Recollections," in 
particular, were composed. This considera- 
tion, though it cannotexcite the voice of praise, 
may at least arrest the arm of censure. A con- 
siderable portion of these poems has been pri- 
rately printed,at the request and for the perusal 
of my friends. I am sensible that the partial 
and frequently injudicious admiration of a so- 
cial circle is not the criterion by which poetical 
genius is *> be estimated, yet, " to do greatly," 
we must " dare greatly; " and I have hazarded 
my reputation and feelings in publishing this 
volume. " I have passed the Rubicon," and 
u.:ist stand or fall by the " cast of the die." 
In the latter event, I shall submit without a 
murmur; for. though not without solicitude 
For the fate of these effusions, my expectations 
.ire by no means sanguine. It is probable 



that I may have dared much and done little, 
for, in the words of Cowper, " it is one thing 
to write what may please our friends, who, 
because they are such, are apt to be a little 
biassed in our favour, and another to write 
what may please every body ; because they 
who have no connection, or even knowledge 
of the author, will be sure to find fault if they 
can." To the truth of this, however, I do not 
wholly subscribe ; on the contrary, I feel con- 
vinced that these trifles will not be treated 
with injustice. Their merit, if they possess 
any, will be liberally allowed: their numerous 
faults, on the other hand, cannot expect that 
favour which has been denied to others of ma- 
turer years, decided character, and far greater 
ability. 

I have not aimed at exclusive originality, 
still less have I studied any particular model 
for imitation: some translations are given, of 
which many are paraphrastic In the original 
pieces there may appear a casual coincidence 
with authors whose works I have been accus- 
tomed to read; but I have not been guilty of. 
intentional plagiarism. To produce any thing 
entirely new, in an age so fertile in rhj me, 
would be a Herculean task, as every subject 
has already been treated to its utmost extent. 
Poetry, however, is not my primary vocation ; 
to divert the dull moments of indisposition, or 
the monotony of a vacant hour, urged me "to 
this sin:" little can be expected from so un 
promising a muse. My wreath., scanty as it 
must be, is all I shall derive from these pro 

10 



130 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



ductions ; and I shall never attempt to replace 
its fading leaves, or pluck a single additional 
sprig from groves where I am, at best, an in- 
truder. Though accustomed, in my younger 
days, to rove a careless mountaineer on the 
Highlands of Scotland, I have not, of late years, 
had the benefit of such pure air, or so elevated 
residence, as might enable me to enter the 
I'sts with genuine bards, who have enjoyed 
b>th these advantages. But they derive con- 
siderable fame, and a few not less profit, from 
their productions; while I shall expiate my 
rashness as an interloper, certainly without the 
latter, and in all probability with a veiy slight 
share of the former. I leave to others " virum 
volitare per ora." I look to the few who will 
hear with patience " dulce est desipere in loco." 
To the former worthies I resign, without re- 
pining, the hope of immortality, and content 
myself with the not very magnificent prospect 
of ranking amongst " the mob of gentlemen 
who write;" — my readers must determine whe- 
ther I dare say "with ease," or the honour of 
a posthumous page in " The Catalogue of 
Eoyal and Noble Authors," — a work to which 
the Peerage is under infinite obligations, in- 
asmuch as many names of considerable length, 
sound, and antiquity, are thereby rescued from 
the obscurity which unluckily overshadows 
several voluminous productions of their illus 
trious bearers. 

With slight hopes, and some fears, I publish 
this first and last attempt. To the dictates of 
young ambition may be ascribed many actions 
more criminal and equally absurd. To a few 
of my own age the contents may afford amuse- 
ment: I trust they will, at least, be found 
harmless. It is highly improbable, from my 
situation and pursuits hereafter, that I should 
«wer obtrude myself a second time on the 
oublic ; nor, even, in the very doubtful event 
if present indulgence, shall I be tempted to 
-ommit a future trespass of the same nature. 
The opinion of P r . Johnson on the Poems of 
\ noble relation of mine 1 , " That when a man 
of rank appeared in the character of an author, 
he deserved to have his merit handsomely al- 
•lowed 2 ," can have little weight with verbal, 
and still less with periodical censors; but were 
it otherwise, f should be loth to avail myself 
r J the privilege, and would rather incur the 
pitterest censure of anonymous criticism, than 
u ;umph in honours granted solely to a title. 



Incurs of Bkness. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY 

COUSIN TO THE AUTHOR, AND VERY 
DEAR TO HIM. 3 

Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening 
gloom, 

Not e'en a zephyr wanders through the grove, 
Whilst I return, to view my Margaret's tomb, 

And scatter flowers on the dust I love. 

Within this narrow cell reclines her clay, 
That clay,where once such animation beam'd: 

The King of Terrors seized her as his prey ; 
Not worlh,nor beauty ,have her life redeem'd 

Oh ! could that King of Terrors pity feel. 
Or Heaven reverse the dread decrees of fate I 

Not here the mourner would his grief reveal, 
Not here the muse her virtues would relate. 

Butwhereforeweep? Hermatchless spirit soars 
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day; 

And weeping angels lead her to those bowers 
Where endlesspleasures virtue's deeds repay 

And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven ar- 
raign, 
And, madly, godlike Providence accuse ? 
Ah ! no, far fly from me attempts so vain ; — 
I'll ne'er submission to my God refuse. 

Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear, 
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face '. 

Sti 1 they call forth my warm affection's tear, 
Still in my heart retain their wonted place 

1802 



TO E .« 

Let Folly smile, to view the names 
Of thee and me in friendship twined; 

Yet Virtue will have greater claims 
To love, than rank with vice combined 

And though unequal is thy fate, 
Since title deck'd my higher birth > 

Yet envy not this gaudy state ; 

Thine is the pride of modest wmtb 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Ul 



Our souls at least congenial meet, 
Nor can thy lot my rank disgrace ; 

Our intercourse is not less sweet, 

Since worth of rank supplies the place. 
November, 1802. 



TO D A 

In thee, t fondly hoped to clasp 

A trie. id, whom death alone could sever; 
Till envy, with malignant grasp, 

Detach'd thee from my breast for ever. 

True, she has forced thee from my breast, 
Yet, in my heart thou keep'st thy seat ; 

There, there thine image still must rest. 
Until that heart shall cease to beat. 

And, when the grave restores her dead, 
When life again to dust is given. 

On thy dear breast 1 '11 lay my head — 
Without thee.where would be my heaven ? 
February, 18C3. 



EPITAPH ON A FPJEND.6 

'Afl'T^ **£/» fth lX.Ct/U,Tif iVt %a>o~<rtv livof. 

Laertius. 

Oh, Friend ! for ever loved, for ever dear! 
What fruitless tears have bathed thy honoiu u 

bier ! 
What sighs re-echo'd to thy parting breath, 
Whilst thou wast struggling in the pangs of 

death! 
Could tears retard the tyrant in his course ; 
Could sighs avert his dart's relentless force; 
Could youth and virtue claim a short delay, 
On- beauty charm the spectre from"his prey ; 
Thou still hadst lived to bless my aching sight, 
Thy comrade's honour and thy friend's delight. 
/fyet thy gentle spirit hover nigh 
The spot where now thy mouldering ashes lie, 
Here wilt thou read, recorded on my heart, 
A grief too deep to trust the sculptor's art. 
No nurble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, 
But living statues there are seen to weep ; 
Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb, 
Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom. 
What though thy sire lament his failing line, 
A father's sorrows cannot equal mine ! 
Though none, like thee, his dying hour will 

cheer. 
Vet other offspring soothe his anguish here : 



But, who with me shall hold thy former placr ' 
Thine image, what new friendship can eflar* ' 
Ah ! none ! — a father's tears will cease to flo*< 
Time will assuage an infant brother's woe; 
To all, save one, is consolation known, 
While solitary friendship sighs alone. 



A FRAGMENT 

When, to their airy hall, my lathers' v('-v. 
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their chofce, 
When, poised upon the gale, my form siall 

ride, 
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side; 
Oh ! may my shade behold no sculptured urns 
To mark the spot where earth to earth retui us ! 
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise-enoumber'd 

stone ; 
My epitaph shall be my name alone ; 7 
If that with honour fail to crown my clay, 
Oh ! may no other fame my deeds repay . 
That, only that, shall single out the spot; 
By that remember'd, or with that forgot. 



ON LEAVING NEWSTEAD ABBEY.8 

" Why dost thou build the hall, son of the 
wi..tjed days ? Thou lookest from thy tower to- 
day : yet a few years, and the blast of the desert 
conies, it howls in thy empty court." — Ossian. 

Through thy battlements, Newstead, the 

hollow winds whistle ; 

Thou, the hall of my fathers, art gone to 

decay: [thistle 

In thy once smiling garden, the hemlock and 

Have choked up the rose which late bloom d 

in the way. 

Of the mail-cover d Barons, who proudly tc 

battle [plain* 

Led their vassals from Europe to Palestine's 

The escutcheon and shield, which with every 

blast rattle, 

Are the only sad vestiges now that remain 

No more doth old Robert, with harp-stringing 

numbers, 

Raise a flame in the breast for the war- 

laurell'd wreath ; [slumbers • 

Near Askalon's towers, John of Horistan 1 ' 

Unnerved is the hand of his minstrel hj 

death. 
k2 



132 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Paul and Hubert, too, sleep in the valley of 
Or easy;" [fell: 

For the safety of Edward and England they 
y fathers ! the tears of your country redress 



ye 



f annals can tell. 



How you fought, he w you died, still her 

Marston 12 , with Rupert' 13 , 'gainst traitors 

contending [bleak field ; 

?our brothers enrich'd with their blood the 

i the rights 01 a monarch their country 

defending, 
Till death their attachment to royalty seal'd." 

ades of heroes, farewell ! your descendant, 
departing 

From tbeseatofhis ancestors/bids you adieu ! 
Abroad, or at home, your remembrance im- 
parting 

New courage, he '11 think upon glory and you. 

Though a tear dim his eye at this sad separation, 
T is nature, not fear, that excites his regret ; 

«ar distant he goes, with the same emulation, 
The fame of his fathers he ne'er can forget. 

fha*, fame, and that memory, still will he 

cherish; [renown: 

He vows that he ne'er will disgrace your 

take you will he live, or like you will he 

perish : [your own! 

When decay'd, may he mingle his dust with 

1803 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN " LETTERS TO AN ITALIAN NUN 
AND AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN: KVJ. J. 
ROUSSEAU: FOUNDED ON FACTS." 

" Away, away, your flattering arts 
May now betray some simple hearts; 
And vou will smile at their believing, 
And they shall weep at your deceiving." 

ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING, ADDRESSED 
TO MISS -. 

Dear, simple girl, those flattering arts, 
From which thou "dst guard frail female hearts, 
Exist but in imagination, — 
Mere phantoms of thine own creation; 
For he who views that witching grace. 
That perfect form, that lovely i'ace, 



With eyes admiring, oh ! believe n« 

He never wishes to deceive thee ■ 

Once in thy polish' d mirror glance 

Thou 'It there descry that elegance, 

Which from our sex demands such praises, 

But envy in the other raises: 

Then he who tells thee of thy beauty. 

Believe me, only does his duty 

Ah ! fly not from the candid youth ; 

It is not flattery, — 'tis truth. 

July, 1804 

ADRIAN'S ADDRESS TO HIS SOUL 

WHEN DYING." 

[Animula! vagula, blandula, 
Hospes comesque corporis, 
Quae nunc ahibis in loca — 
Pallidula, rigida, nudula, 
Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos ?] 

Ah ! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite, 
Friend and associate of this clay ! 

To what unknown region borne. 
Wilt thou now wing thy distant flight? 
No more with wonted humour gay, 

But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS 

AD LESBIAM. 

Equal to Jove that youth must be — 
Greater than Jove he seems to me — 
Who, free from Jealousy's alarms, 
Securely views thy matchless charms, 
That cheek, which ever dimpling glows. 
That mouth, from whence such music flows, 
To him, alike, are always known, 
Reserved for him, and him alone. 
Ah Lesbia ! though 't is death to me, 
I cannot choose but look on thee ; 
But, at the sight, my senses fly ; 
I needs must gaze, but, gazing, die ; 
Whilst trembling with a thousand feais, 
Parch'd to the throat my tongue adheres, 
My pulse beat quick, my breath heave: shorv 
My limbs deny their slight support, 
Cold dews my pallid face o'erspread, 
With deadly languor droops my head, 
My ears with tingling echoes ring 
And life itself is on the wing ; 
My eyes refuse the cheering light, 
Their orbs are veil'd in starbss night; 
Such pangs my nature sinks beneath 
And feels a temporary death. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



133 



TRANSLATION OF THE EPITAPH ON 
VIRGIL AND TIBULLUS. 

BY DOMITIUS MARSUS. 

He who sublime in epic numbers roll'd, 
And he who struck the softer lyre of love, 

By Death's 16 unequal hand alike controll'd, 
Fit comrades in Elysian regions move ! 



IMITATION OF TIBULLUS. 

" Sulpicia ad Cerinthum." — Lib. 4. 

Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease 
Whiyli racks my breast your fickle bosom 

please ? 
Alas! I wish'd but to o'ercome the pain, 
That I might live for love and you again • 
But now I scarcely shall bewail my fate ; 
B} death alone I can avoid your hate. 



TRANSLATION FROM CATULLUS. 

[Jaigete, Venerea, Cupidinesque, &c] 

Ye Cupids, droop each little nead, 
Nor let your wings with joy be spread, 
My Lcsbia's favourite bird is dead, 

Whom dearer than her eyes she loved 
For he was gentle, and so true, 
Obedient to her call he flew, 
' No fear, no wild alarm he knew, 

But lightly o'er her bosom moved: 

And softly fluttering here and there, 
He never sought to cleave the air. 
But chirupp'd oft, and, free from care, 

Tuned to her ear his grateful strain. 
Now having pass'd the gloomy bourne 
From whence he never can return, 
His death and Lcsbia's grief I mourn, 

Who sighs, alas ! but sighs in vain. 

Oh ! curst be thou, devouring grave ! 
Whose jaws eternal victims crave, 
From whom no earthly powcv can save, 

For thou hast ta'en the biid away 
From thee, my Lesbia's eyes o'erflow, 
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow; 
Thou art the cause of all her woe, 

Keccptaclc of life's decay. 



IMITATED FROM CATULLUS 

TO ELLEN. 

Oh '. might I kiss those eyes of fire, 
A million scarce would quench u--Mre 
Still would I steep my lips in blis>, 
And dwell an age on every kiss : 
Nor then my soul should sated be ; 
Still would I kiss and cling to thee 
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever ; 
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever ; 
E'en though the numbers did exceed 
The yellow harvest's countless seed. 
To part would be a vain endeavour: 
Could I desist ? — ah ! never — never ! 



TRANSLATION FROM HORACE. 

[Justum et tenacem propositi virum, Src] 

The man of firm and noble soul 
No factious clamours can control : 
No threat' ning tyrant's darkling brow 

Can swerve him from his just intent : 
Gales the warring waves which plough, 

By Auster on the billows spent, 
To curb the Adriatic main, 
Would awe his fix'd determined mind ih vun 

Ay, and the red right arm of Jove, 
Hurtling his lightnings from above, 
With all his terrors there unfuiTd, 

He would, unmoved, unawed behold. 
The flames of an expiring world, 

Again in crashing chaos roll'd, 
In vast promiscuous ruin hurl'd, 
Might light his glorious funeral pile . [smile 
Still dauntless 'midst the wreck of earth he'* 



FROM ANACREON. 

f &i\a XtyiTv Ar^ii^aff *. r. X.] 

1 wish co cune my quivering lyre 
To deeds of fame and notes of fire ; 
To echo, from its rising swell, 
How heroes fought and nations fell 
When Atrens' sons advanced to war, 
Or Tyrian Cadmus roved afar; 
But stili. to martial strains unknown 
My lyre recurs to love aione : 



134 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Fired with the hope of future fame, 
I seek some nobler hero's name ; 
The dying chords are strung anew, 
To war, to war, my harp is due 
With glowing strings, the epic strain 
To Jove's great son I raise again ; 
Alcides and his glorious deeds, 
Beneath whose arm the Hydra bleeds. 
All. all in vain ; my wayward lyre 
Wakes silver notes of soft desire. 
Adieu, ye chiefs renown'd in arms ! 
Adieu the clang of war's alarms ! 
To other deeds my soul is strung, 
And sweeter notes shall now be sung; 
My harp shall all its powers reveal, 
To tell the tale my heart must feel : 
Love, Love alone, my lyre shall claim, 
in songs of bliss and sighs of flame. 



With care I tend my wtary guest, 

His little fingers chill my breast : 

His glossy curls, his azure wing, 

Which droop with nightly showers, I wring 

His shivering limbs the embers warm ; 

And now reviving from the storm, 

Scarce had he felt his wonted glow, 

Than swift he seized his slender bow — 

" I fain would know, my gentle host," 

He cried, " if this its strength has lost; 

I fear, relax'd with midnight dews, 

The strings their former aid refuse." 

With poison tipt, his arrow flies, 

Deep in my tortured heart it lies , 

Then loud the joyous urchin laugh'd :— 

" My bow can still impel the shaft : 

Tis firmly fix'd, thy sighs reveal it; 

Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?" 



FROM ANACREON. 

["Skiff OVVKT<et;.S "71 off toflKlS, K. T. A.] 

'Twas now the hour when Night had drivea 

Her ear half round yon sable Leaven ; 

Bootes, only, seein'd to roll 

His arctic charge around the pole; 

While mortals, lost in gentle sleep, 

Forgot to smile, or ceased to weep : 

At this lone hour, the Paphian boy, 

Descending from the realms of joy, 

Quick to my gate directs his course, 

And knocks with all his little force. 

My visions fled, alarm'd I rose, — 

" What stranger breaks my blest repose ?" 

" Alas!" replies the wily child, 

In faltering accents sweetly mild, 

" A hapless infant here I roam, 

Far from my dear maternal home. 

Oh ! shield me from the wintry blast ! 

The nightly storm is pouring fast. 

No prowling robber lingers here. 

A wandering baby who can fear?" 

1 heard his seeming artless tale 

I heard his sighs upon the gale : 

My breast was never pity's foe, 

But felt for all the baby's woe. 

I drew the bar, and by the light, 

Young Love, the infant, met my sight ; 

His bow across his shoulders flung, 

And thence his fatal quiver hung 

(Ah ! little did I think the dart 

*A- T ould rankle soon within my heart). 



FROM THE PROMETHEUS VINCTUS 
OF AESCHYLUS. 

\_Mriha.fA o vrcivra, vi/nuv, x. r. A.] 

Great Jo\e, to whose almighty throne 
Both gods and mortals homage pay, 

Ne'er may my soul thy power disown, 
Thy dread behests ne'er disobey. 

Oft shall the sacred victim fall 

In sea-girt Ocean's mossy hall ; 

My voice shall raise no impious strain 

Gainst him who rules the sky and azure imin 
How different now thy joyless fate, 

Since first Hesione thy bride, 
When placed aloft in godlike state, 
The blushing beauty by thy side, 
Thou sat'st, while reverend Ocean smiled, 
And mirthful strains the hours beguiled, 
The Nymphs and Tritons danced around, 
Nor yet thy doom was fix'd, nor Jove relent 
less frown'd.l? 

Harrow, Dec. 1, 1804 



TO EMMA 

Since now the hour is come at last, 
When you must quit your anxious lover 

Since now our dream of bliss is past. 
One pang, my girl, and all is over. 

Alas ! that pang will be severe, 

Which bids us part to meet no more; 

Which tears me far from one sc deal - , 
Departing for a distant shor;. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



135 



Well ! we have pass'd some happy hours, 
And joy will ming c with our tears ; 

When thinking on these ancient towers, 
The shelter of our infant years ; 

Where from this Gothic casement's height, 
We view'd the lake, the park, the dell ; 

And still, though tears obstruct our sight, 
We lingering look a last farewell, 

O er fields through which we used to run, 
And spend the hours in childish play ; 

O'er shades where, when our race was done, 
Repo sing on my breast you lay ; 

Whilst I, admiring, too remiss, 
Forgot to scare the hovering iiies, 

Yet envied every fly the kiss 

It dared to give your slumbering eyes : 

See still the little painted bark, 

In which I row'd you o'er the lake ; 

See there, high waving o'er the park, 
The elm I clamber'd for your sake. 

These times are past — our joys are gone, 
You leave me, leave this happy vale ; 

These scenes I must retrace alone : 
Without thee what will they avail ? 

Who can conceive, who has not proved, 
The anguish of a last embrace ? 

When, torn from all you fondly loved, 
You bid a long adieu to peace. 

This is the deepest of our woes, 

For this these tears our cheeks bedew 

This is of love the final close, 

Oh, God ! the fondest, last adieu ! 



A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 

Yet I conceal my love, — and why? 
I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
Hast seen my ardent flame too well, 

And shall I plead my passion now, 
To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 

No ! for thou never canst be mine, 
United by the priest's decree: 

By any ties but those divine, 

Mine, my beloved, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 

Let it consume, thou shall not know 

With joy I court a certain doom, 
Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortured heart, 

By driving dove-eyed peace from thine; 

Rather than such a sting impart, 

Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes ! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
More than I here shall dare to tell; 

Thy innocence and mine to save, — 
I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair, 
And hope no more thy soft embrace ; 

Which to obtain my soul would dare, 
All, all reproach — but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
No matron shall thy shame reprove; 

Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
No martyr shalt thou be to love. 



TO M. S. G. 



TO CAROLINE 



Whene er I view those lips of thine, 
Their hue invites my fervent kiss;. 

Yet I forego that bliss divine, 
Alas ! it were unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
How could I dwell upon its snows '. 

Yet is the daring wish represt; 
For that, — would banish its repose 



Think'st thou I saw thy beauteous eyes, 
Suffused in tears, implore to stay; 

And heaiu unmoved thy plenteous sighs, 
Which said far more than words can say 

Though keen the grief thy tears exprest, 
When love and hope lay both o'erthrown; 

Yet still, my girl, this bleeding breast 
Throbb'd with deep sorrow as thine own 



136 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



But ■when our cheeks with anguish glowd 
When thy sweet lips were join' d to mine, 

The taars that from my eyelids flow'd 
Were lost in those which fell from thine. 

Thou could'*! not feel my burning cheek, 
Thy gushing tears had queneh'd its flame; 

And as thy tongue essay'd to speak, 
In sighs alone it breathed my name. 

And yet, my girl, we weep in vain, 
In vain our fate in sighs deplore; 

Remembrance only can remain, — 
But that will make us weep the more. 

Again, thou best beloved, adieu! 

Ah! if thou canst, o'ercome regret; 
Nor let thy mind past joys review, — 

Our only hope is to forget ! 



TO CAROLINE. 

When I hear you express an affectior s ? warm, 
Ne'er think, my beloved, that I do not be- 
lieve ; , [a™, 
For your lip would the soul of suspicion dis- 
Andyour eyebearas a ray which can never 
deceive. 

Yet, still, this fond bosom regrets, while adoring, 
Thatlove.like the leaf, must fall into the sear; 

That age will come on, when remembrance, 

deploring, [a tear; 

Contemplates the scenes of her youth with 

That the time must am ve, when, no longer re-, 
tabling [the breeze,, 

Their auburn, those locks must wave thin to 
When a few silver hairs of those tresses re- 
maining, 
Prove nature a prey to decay and disease. 

T is this, my beloved, which spreads gloom 

o'er my features, [decree, 

Though I ne'er shall presume to arraign the 

Which God has proclaim'd as the fate of his 

creatures, [of me 

In the death which one day will deprive you 

Mistake not.sweet sceptic, the cause of emouon, 
No doubt can the mind of your lover invade ; 

He worships each look with such faithful devo- 
tion, 
A smile can enchant, or a tear can dissuade. 



But as death, my beioved, soon or late shaU 

o'ertake us, fpathy g'ow, 

And our breasts, which alive with such sym- 

Will sleep in the grave till the blast shall 

awake us, [low — 

When calling the dead, in earth's bosom laid 

Oh ! then let us drain, while we may, draught* 
of pleasure, [ceasingly new 

Which from passion like ours may tin- 
Let us pass round the cup of love's bliss in 

full measure, 
And quaff the contents as out nectar below. 

1805 



TO CAROLINE. 

Oh ! when shall the grave hide for ever my 

sorrows ? [from this clay ? 

Oh ! when shall my soul wing her flight 

The present is hell, and the coming to-morrow 

But brings, with neAv torture, the curse of 

to-day 

From my eye flows no tear, from my lips flow 
no curses, [from bliss ; 

I blast not the fiends who have hurl'd me 
For poor is the soul which bewailing rehearses 

Its querulous grief, when in anguish like this. 

Was my eye, 'stead of tears, with red fury 
flakes bright'ning, 
Would my lips breathe a flame which no 
stream could assuage, 
On our foes should my glance launch in ven- 
geance its lightning, [its rage. 
With transport my tongue give a loose to 

But now tears and curses, alike unavailing, 
Would add to the souls of our tyrants delight : 

Coidd they view us our sad separation be- 
wailing, [sight. 
Their merciless hearts would rejoice at trie 

Yet still, though we bend with a feign'd rcsig 

nation, [can chee- 

Life beams not for us with one ray tha 

Love and hope upon earth bring n J more con 

solation ; [fern 

In the grave is our hope, for in life is on 

Oh ! when, my adored, in the tomb will the 

place me, [arc fled '. 

Since, in life, love and friendship for cvei 

If again in the mansion of death I embrace thee 

Perhaps they will leave unmolested the lead 

1&05 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



137 



STANZAS TO A LADY. 

WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOEN3.1* 

This votive pledge of fund esteem, 

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thoa It prize, 

It .sings of Love's enchanting dreara, 
A theme we never can despise. 

Who blames it but the envious fool, 
Ihe old and disappointed maid; 

Or pupil of the prudish school, 
In single sorrow donm'd to fade ? 

Then read, dear girl ! with feeling read, 
For thou wilt ne'er be one of those ; 

To thee in vain I shall not plead 
T n pity for the poet's woes. 

He was in sooth a genuine bard : 
His was no faint, fictitious flame: 

Like his, may love be thy reward, 
But not thy hapless fate the same. 19 



Your shepherds, your flocks, those lantastio* 
themes, 
Perhaps may amuse, yet theynever can move 
Arcadia displays but a region of dreams : 
What are visions like these to the first kiss 
of love ? 

Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth 
From Adam till now, has with wretchedness 
strove ; 

Some portion of paradise still is on earth. 
And Eden revives in the first Kiss of lo- e 

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures 
are past — [dove — 

For years fleet away with the wings of ihe 
The dearest remembrance will still be the last, 

Our sweetest memorial the first luss of love 



ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS AT A 
GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.*) 



Where are those honours, Ida! once your own. 
WhenProbusSl filled your magisterial throne? 
As ancient Rome, fast falling to disgrace, 
Hail'd a barbarian in her Cesar's place, 
Anacreon. /So you, degenerate, share as hard a fate, 

/ And seat Pomposus where your Probus sate. 
Away with your fictions of flimsy romance ; \ Of narrow brain, yet of a narrower soul, 
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has / Pomposus"'- 2 holds you in his harsh control ; 
'wove! [glance,! Pomposus, by no social virtue sway'd, 

Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing ) With florid jargon, and with vain parade ; 



THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE. 
'A Tix^Giro; 5; %ooba7s 



Or the rapture which dwells on the first 
kiss of love. 

Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow, 
Whose pastoral passions are made for the 

grove ; [would flow, 

From what blest inspiration your sonnets 
. Could you ever have tasted the first kiss 01 

love! 

If Apollo should e'er his assistance refuse, 
Or the Nine be disposed from your service 
to rove, 

Invoke them no more, bid adieu to the muse, 
And tiy the effect of the first kiss of love ! 

I hate you, ye cold compositions of art ! 
Though prudes may condemn me, and 
bigots reprove, 
I court the effusions that spring from the he> -t, 
Which throbs with delight to the first ki»« 
of love 



With noisy nonsense, and new-f-.iiiglcd rules, 
Such as were ne'er before enforced in schools. 
, Mistaking pedantry for learning's laws, 
He governs, sanction'd but by self-applause, 
With him the same dire fate attending Rome, 
Ill-fated Ida! soon must stamp your doom: 
Like her overthrown, for ever lost to fame, 
No trace of science left you, but the name. 

July, 1805. 



TO THE DUKE OF DORSET. 

Dorset^! whose early steps with mine have 

stray 'd, 
Exploring every path of Ida's glade ; 
Whom still affection taught me to defend, 
And made me less a tyrant than a friend, 
Though the harsh custom of our youthful bar 
Bade thee obey, and gave me to command -M 
Thee,on whose head a few short yearswill showet 
The gift of ;iches, and the pride of powei 



[38 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



E'en now a name illustrious is thine own, 
Renown'd in rank, not far beneath the throne 
yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soui 
To shun fair science, or evade control, 
Though passive tutors 25 , fearful to dispraise. 
The titled child, whose future breath may raise, 
View ducal errors with indulgent eyes, 
And wink at faults they tremble to chastise. 

When youthful parasites, who bend the knee 
To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee, — 
And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn 
Some slaves are found to Hatter and 10 fawn, — 
When these declare, " that pomp alone should 

wait 
On one by birth predestined to be great ; 
That books were only meant for drudging fools 
That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;" 
"Believe them not; — they point the path to 

shame, 
And seek to blast the honours of thy name. 
Turn to the few in Ida's early throng, 
Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong ; 
Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth, 
None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth, 
Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy 

forbear ; 
Fur well I know that virtue lingers there.[day, 
Yes ! I have mark'd thee many a passing 
But now new scenes invite me far away ; 
Fes! I have mark'd within that generous mind 
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind. 
Ah! though myself, by nature haughty, wild, 
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child; 
Though every error stamps me for her own, 
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone ; 
Though my proud heart no precept now can 

tame, 
I love the virtues which I cannot claim. 

Tis not enough, with other sons of power, 
To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ; 
To swell some peerage page in feeble pride. 
With long-drawn names that grace no page 

beside ; 
Then share with titled crowds the commonlot — 
Tn life just gazed at, in the grave forgot ; 
While nought divides thee from the vulgar 

dead, 
Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head 
The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, 
That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, 
Where lords, unhonoui-'d in the tomb may find 
One spot, to leave a worthless name behind. 
There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults 
T a at veil their dust, their folli es, and their faults, 
k race^ with old armorial lists o'erspread, 
tn records destined never to be read. 



Fain would I view thee, with prophetic ry?.». 
Exalted more among the good and wise, 
A glorious and a long career pursue, 
As first in rank, the first in talent too: 
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun 
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son. 

Turn to the annals of a former day; 
Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires displav 
One, though a. courtier, lived a man of worth, 
And call'd, proud boast! the British dram; 

forth.26 
Another view, not less renown'd for wit ; 
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit ; 
Bold in the field, and favour' d by the Nine ; 
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine ; 
Far, far distinguish' d from the glittering throng 
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.2* 
Such were thy fathers ; thus preserve their 

name ; 
Not heir to titles only, but to fame. 
The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will 

close 
To me, this little scene of joys and woes ; 
Each knell of Time now warns me to resign 
Shades where Hope, Peacu, and Friendship 

all were mine 
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, 
And gild their pinions as the moments flew ; 
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away. 
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day ; 
Friendship, whose truth let childhood onl? 

tell; 
Alas ! they love not long, who love so welL 
To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er 
Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore. 
Receding slowly through the dark -blue deep, 
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot wet p. 

Dorset, farewell ! I will not ask one part 
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart ; 
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind 
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind 
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year. 
Since chance has thrown us in the self-same 

sphere, 
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate. 
May one day chum our suffrage for the 8ta*t 
We hence may meet, and pass each other lj, 
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye. 
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe. 
With thee no more again I hope to trace 
The recollection of our early race ; 
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, 
Orhear, unless in crowds. thy well-known voice 
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught 
To veil those feelings which perchance it oughi 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



139 



If these, — but let me cease the lengthen'd 

stiain, — 
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, 
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate 
Will leave theeglorious,ashe found thee great. 28 

1805. 



FRAGMENT. 

WRITTEN* SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE 
OF MISS CHAWORTH. 

Hills of Annesley ! bleak and ban-en, 
Where my thoughtless childhood stray 'd, 

How the northern tempests, warring, 
Howl above thy tufted shade! 

Now no more, the hours beguiling, 
Former favourite haunts I see ; 

Now no more my Mary smiling 
Makes ye seem a heaven to me. 29 

1805. 



They know the Chancellor has got 
Some pretty livings in disposal: 

Each hopes that one may be his lot, 
And therefore smiles on his proposal 

Now from the soporific scene 

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows latei 
To view, unheeded and unseen, 

The studious sons of Alma Mater. 

There, in apartments small and damp, 
The candidate for college prizes 

Sits poring by the midnight lamp; 
Goes late to bed, yet early rises 

He surely well deserves to gain them, 
With all the honours of his college, 

Who, striving hardly to obtain them, 
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge: 

Who sacrifices hours of rest 
To scan precisely metres Attic; 

Or agitates his anxious breast 

In solving problems mathematic: 



GEANTA. A Medley. 
'Agyugiccig Xoy%Mtrt ftx^av Ma) •jrajtv* 

Oh ! could Le Sage's 30 demon's gift 

Be realised at my desire, 
This night my trembling form he'd lift 

To place it on St Mary's spire. 

Then would, unroofd, old Granta's halls 
Pedantic inmates full display; 

Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls, 
The price of venal votes to pay 

Then would I view each rival wight, 
Petty and Palmerston survey; 

Who canvass there with all their might, 
Against the next elective day. 31 

Lo! candidates and voters lie 

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number: 

A race renown'd tor piety, [slumber 

Whose conscience won't disturb then 



Who reads false quantities in Seale, 33 
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle; 

Deprived of many a wholesome meal ; 
In barbarous Latin 34 doom'd to wrtJigl* 

Renouncing every pleasing page 
From authors of historic use; 

Preferring to the letter'd sage, 
The square of the hypothenuse. 35 

Still, harmless are these occupations, 
That hurt none but the hapless studemt, 

Compared with other recreations, 

Which bring together the imprudent, 

Whose daring revels shock the sight, 
When vice and infamy combine, 

When drunkenness and dice invite, 
As every sense is steep'd in wine. 

Not so the methodistic crew, 
Who plans of reformation lay 

In humble attitude they sue, 
And lor the sins of others pray 



Lord H 32 , indeed, may not demur; 

Fellows are sage reflecting men: 
They know preferment can occur 

But verv seldom. — now and then. 



.'/orgetting that their pride of spirit, 
Their exultation in their trial, 

Detracts most largely from the meri* 
Of all their boasted self-deniaL 



uo 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Tis morn: — from these I turn my sight. 

What scene is this which meets the eye? 
A numerous crowd, array'cl in white, 36 

Across the green in numhers fh. 

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ; [hear? 

Tis hush'd:— what, sounds are these I 
The 01 gaii's soft celestial swell 

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear. 

To this is join'd the sacred song, 

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain; 

Though he who hears the music long 
Will never wish to hear again. 

Our choir would scarcely be excused, 
Even as a band of raw beginners; 

All mercy now must be refused 
To such a set of croaking sinners. 

If Darid, when his toils were ended, [him, 
Had heard these blockheads sing before 

To us his psalms had ne'er descended, — 
In furious mood he would have tore 'em. 

The luckless Israelites, when taken 
By some inhuman tyrant's order, 

Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken, 
On Babylonian river's border. 

Oh! had they sung in notes like these, 

Inspired by stratagem or fear, 
They might have set their hearts at ease, 

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear. 

But if I scribble longer now, 

The deuce a soul will slay to read: 
My pen is blunt, m\ ink : s tow; 
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed, 

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spiiv*. 

No more, like Cleofas, I rly ; 
No more thy theme my muse inspires: 

The reader 's tired, and so am I. 

1806. 



ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VIL- 
LAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW 
ON THE HILL. 

Oh ! mihi prseteritos refcrat si Jupiter annos. — 

VjRGII,. 

Ve scenes of my childhood, whose loved re- 
collection [past; 
Embitters the present, compared with the 



Where science first dawn'd on the powers o* 

reflection, flast; 3 * 

And friendships were form'd too romuitic to 

Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance 

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief 

allied ; [brance 

How welcome to me your ne'er fading rem em- 

Which rests ; n the bosom, though hope it 

denied ! 

Again I revisit the hills where we spi.rted, 

The streams where we swam, and the fields 

whore we fought; 38 [resorted, 

The school where, loud warn'd by the hell, we 

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues 

taught. 

[der'd, 

Again I behold where for hours I have pon- 

Asreclining, at eve,on yon tombstone 39 I lay; 

Or round the steep brow of the churchyard 1 

wander'd, [ray. 

To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting 

I once more view the room, with spectators 

surrounded, [thrown ; 

Where, as Zanga 40 , I trod on Alon/.o o'er- 

While, to swell my young pride, such applar.ses 

resounded, [shone - 

I fancied that Mossop 41 himself was out- 

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep impreca- 
tion, [deprived; 

By my daughters, of kingdom and reason 
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self adulation, 

I regarded myself as a Garrick revived. **- 

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret 
you ! 

Unladed your memory dwells in my breast; 
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you 

Your pleasures may still be in fancy possest 

To Ida full oi'tmay remembrance restore mo, 

While fate shall the shades of the future 

unroll ! [me 

Since darkness o'ershadows the prospec before 
More dear is the beam of the past to my eoul 

But if, through the course of the years which 

await me, l v ^ v . 

Some new scene of pleasure should open tr 

I will say, while with rapture the thought shal 

elate me, [knew ! 

" Oh' such were the days which my infanej 

I8fl6 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



141 



~0 M . 

5h ! .lid those eyes, Instead of fire, 
With bright but mild affection shine, 

Though they might kindle less desire, 
Love, more than mortal, would be thine. 

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair, 
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam, 

We must admire, but still despairs 
That fatal glance forbids esteem. 

When Nature stamp' d thy beauteous birth, 
So much perfection in thee shone, 

She fear'd that, too divine for earth, 

The skies might claim thee for their own : 

Therefore, to guard her dearest work, 
Lest angels might dispute the prize, 

She bade a secret lightning lurk- 
Within those once celestial eyes. 

These might the boldest sylph appal, 
When gleaming with meridian blaze; 

Thy beauty must enrapture all ; 

But who can dare thine ardent gaze? 

Tis said that Berenice's hair 
In stars adorns the vault of heaven ; 

^5ut they would ne'er permit thee there, 
Thou wouldst so fai outshine the seven. 

For did those eyes as planets roll, 

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear : 

E'en suns, which systems now control, 
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere 

i8oe. 



TO WOMAN. 



Or sparkles black, or mildly throws 

A beam from under hazel brows! 

How quick we credit every oath, 

And hear her plight the willing troth ! 

Fondly we hope 't will last for aye, 

When lo! she changes in a day. 

This record will for ever stand, 

" Woman, thy vows are traced in sand. "** 



TO M. S. G. 

When I dream that you mve me, you'll surely 
forgive; 

Extend not your anger to sleep ; 
For in visions alone your affection can live, — 

I rise, and it leaves me to weep. 

Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast, 
Shed o'er me your languor benign ; [last, 

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the 
What rapture celestial is mine ' 

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death 

Mortality's emblem is given ; 
To fate how I long to resign my frail breath. 

If this be a foretaste of heaven • 

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft 
brow, 

Nor deem me too happy in this ; 
If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now, 

Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss. 

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you 
may smile, 
Oh! think not my penance deficient ! 
When dreams of your presence my si umbel J 
beguile, 
To awake will be torture sufficient. 



Woman! experience might have told me, 

That all must love thee who behold thee • 

S irely experience might have taught 

Thy firmest promises are nought 

B it, placed in all thy charms before me, 

All I forget, but to adore thee. 

Oh memory! thou choicest blessing 

When join'd with hope, when still possessing : 

But how much cursed by every lover 

tVhen hope is fled and passion 's over. 

IVoman, that fair and fond deceiver. 

Row prompt are striplings to believe her ! 
Hot throbs the pulse when first we view 
'J'he eye that rolls in glossy blue. 



TO MARY. 

ON RECEIVING HER PICTUKK.** 

This faint resemblance of thy charms. 
Though strong as mortal art could give 3 

My constant heart of fear disarms, 
Revives my hopes, and bids me live. 

Here I can trace the locks of gold 

Which round thy snowy forehead wave, 

The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould, 
The lips which made me beauty's slave 



142 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Here I can trace — ah, no! that eye, 
Whose azure floats in liquid fire, 

Must all the painter's art dci'y, 
And hid him from the task retire. 

Heie I behold its beauteous hue; 

But where 's the beam so sweetly straying, 
Which gave a lustre to its blue, 

Like Luna o'er the ocean playing? 

Sweet copy ! far more dear to me, 

Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, 
Than all the living forms could be, 

Save her who placed thee next my heart. 

She placed it, sad, with needless fear, 

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, 

Unconscious that her image there 
Held every sense in fast control. 

Through hours, through years, through time, 
'twill cheer; 

My hope, in gloomy moments, raise; 
(n life's last conflict 'twill appeal - , 

And meet my fond expiring gaze. 



No, no, my flame -^as not pretended; 

For, oh: I lovti you most sincerely , 
And — though our dream at last is ended— 

My bosom still esteems you dearly. 

No more we meet in yonder bowers ; 

Absence has made mt prone to roving; 
But older, firmer hearts than ours 

Have found monotony in loving, 

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd, 
New beauties still are daily bright'ning, 

Your eye for conquest beams rrepared, 
The forge of love's resistless lightning. 

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed, 
Many will throng to sigh like me, love ! 

More constant they may prove, indeed ; 
Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love ! 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG 
LADY. 



TO LESBIA. 



[As the author was discharging his pistols ir 
a garden, two ladies passing near the spot wen 
alarmed by the sound of a bullet hissing neai 
them ; to one of whom the following stanzaJ 
were addressed the next moraing.]4i 



Lbsbia ! since far from you I 've ranged, 
Our souls with fond affection glow not; 

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, 
I'd tell you why, — but yet I know not. 

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; 

And Leshia! we are not much older 
Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, 

Or told my love, with hope grown holder. 

Sixteen was then our utmost age, 

Two rr^rs have lingering past away, love! 
Had now new thoughts our minds engage, 

At least I feel disposed to stray, love! 

T is I that am alone to blame, 

I, that am guilty of love's treason; 

S*ince your sweet breast is still the same, 
Caprice musi be my only reason. 

f do not, iove ! suspect your truth, 

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not; 

Warm was tne passion of my vuth, 
One trace of dark deceit it leaves not 



Doubtless, sweet girl! the hissing lead, 
Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, 

And hurtling* 6 o'er thy lovely head, 
Has fill'd that breast with fond alai*ns. 

Surely some envious demon's force, 
Vex'd to behold such beauty here, 

Impcll'd the bullet's viewdess course, 
Diverted from its first career. 

Yes ! in that nearly fatal hour 

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; 

But Heaven, with interposing power, 
In pity turn'd the death aside. 

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear 
Upon that thrilling bosom fell ; 

Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear, 
Extracted from its glistening cell : 

Say, what dire penance can atone 
For such an outrage done to thee? 

Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne, 
What punishment wilt thou decree f 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



143 



Mignt I perform the judges part, 
The sentence I should scarce deplore; 

li only would restore a heart 

Which but belong'd to thee before. 

1 he least atonement I can make 

Is to become no longer free ; 
Henceforth I breathe but for thy sake, 

Hum shalt be all in all to me. 

But thou, perhaps, may stnow reject 

Such expiation of my guilt: 
Come then, some other mode elect; 

Let it be ueath, or what thou wilt. 

Chonsc then, relentless ! and I swear 
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent; 

Vet hold — one little word forbear! 
Let it be aught but banishment. 



LOVE'S LAST ADIEO. 
All, }' ecu pi <ptvyu. — Anacreon. 

The roses of love glad the garden of life. 
Though nurtur'd 'mid weed3 dropping 
pestilent dew, 

Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife, 
Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu. 

In vain with endearments we soothe the sad 
heart, 

In vain do we vow for an age to be true ; . 
The chance of an hour may command us to part, 

Or death disunite us in love's last adieu ! 



Oh ! who Is yon misanthrope, shunning 
mankind? 

From cities to caves of the forest he flew . 
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the 
wind; 
The mountains reverberate love's last adieu. 

Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy 
chains [knew, 

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments 
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins; 

He ponders in frenzy ol love's last adieu ! 

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt 

in steel ! [are few, 

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles 

Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel, 

And dreads not the anguish of love's last 

adieu ! 

Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o'ercast; 

No more with love's former devotion we sue: 
He spreads his young wing, he retires with 
the blast ; 

The shroud of affection is love's last adieu! 

In this life of probation for rapture divine, 
Astrea declares that some penance is due; 

From him who has worshipp'd at love's gentle 
shrine, 
The atonement is ample in love's last adieu ! 

Who kneels to the god, on his altar of light 
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew: 

His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight; 
His cypress the garland of love's last adieu' 



fitill Hope, breathing peace through the grief. 

swollen breast, [renew :" 

Will whisper, " Our meeting we yet may 

With this dream of deceit half our sorrow 's 

represt, 

Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu ! 

Oa! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of 
youth [flow'rs as they grew ; 

Lovo twined round their childhood his 
IThey flourish awhile in the season of truth, 

Till chili'd by the winter of love's last adieu. 

iweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way 
Do wm a cheek which outrivals thy bosom ia 
hue* 

Yet why do I ask ? — to distraction a prey, 
Thy reason has perish' d with love's last adieu. 



DAM.ETAS. 

In law an infant, 1 * 7 and in years a boy, 
In mind a slave to every vicious joy; 
From every sense of shame and virtue weau'd; 
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend ; 
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child ; 
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild; 
Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool : 
OKI in the world, though scarcely broke from 

school ; 
Damaetas ran through all the maze of sin. 
And found the goal when others just begin: 
Evn still conflicting passions shake his soul, 
And bid him drail the dregs of pleasure's bowi ; 
But, pall d with vice he breakshis former chain. 
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.* 1 



144 HOURS OF IDLENESS. 


TO MARION. 


To hail you queens of all creation, 




Know, in a word, 't is Animation. 


Marion! why that pensive brow? 




What disgust to life hast thou? 




Change that discontented air ; 




Frowns becomt not one so fair. 


TO A LADY 


'T is not love disturbs thy rest, 




Love 's a stranger to thy breast; 


WHO PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR A LOCK OJ 


He in dimpling smiles appears, 


HAIR BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND AP- 


Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, 


POINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER TO MEtl 


Or bends the languid eyelid down, 


HIM IN THE GARDEN. 


But shuns the cold forbidding frown. 




Then resume thy former fire, 


These locks, which fondly thus entwine, 


Some will love, and all admire; 


In firmer chains our hearts confire, 


While that icy aspect chills us, 


Than all th' unmeaning protestations 


Nought but cool indifference thrills us. 


Which swell with nonsense love orations. 


Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, 


Our love is fix'd, I think we 've proved it. 


Smile at least, or seem to smile. 


Nor time, nor place, nor art have moved it; 


Eyes like thine were never meant 


Then wherefore should we sigh and whine 


To hide their orbs in dark restraint; 


With groundless jealousy repine, 


Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, 


With silly whims and fancies frantic, 


Still in truant beams they play. 


Merely to make our love romantic? 


Thy lips — but here my modest Muse 


Why should you weep like Lydia Languish 


Her impulse chaste must needs refuse : 


And fret with self-created anguish? 


She blushes, curt'sies, frowns — in short she 


Or doom the lover you have chosen, 


Dreads lest the subject should transport me; 


On winter nights to sigh half frozen ; 


4nd flying off in search of reason, 


In leafless shades to sue for pardon, 


Brings prudence back in proper season. 


Only because the scene 's a garden? 


All I shall therefore say (whate'er 


For gardens seem, by one consent, 


1 think, is neither here nor there) 


Since Shakspeare set the precedent, 


Is, that such lips, of looks endearing, 


Since Juliet first declared her passion 


Were form'd for better things than sneering: 


To form the place of assignation. 


Of smoothing compliments divested, 


Oh ! would some modern muse inspire, 


Advice at least's disinterested; 


And seat her by a sea-coal fire ; 


Such is my artless song to thee, 


Or had the bard at Christmas written. 


From all the flow of flattery free ; 


And laid the scene of love in Britain, 


Counsel like mine is like a brother's 


He surely, in commiseration, 


My neart is given to some others ; 


Had changed the place of declaration. 


That is to say, unskill'd to cozen, 


In Italy I 've no objection ; 


It shai-es itself among a dozen. 


Warm nights are proper for reflection; 


Marion, adieu! oh, pryfhee slight not 


But here our climate is so rigid, 


This warning, though it may delight not, 


That love itself is rather frigid: 


And, lest my precepts be displeasing 


Think on our chilly situation, 


in those who think remonstrance teasing, 


And curb this rage for imitation : 


At once I '11 tell thee our opinion 


Then let us meet, as oft we've done, 


Concerning woman's soft dominion: 


Beneath the influence of the sun; 


Howe'er we gaze with admiration 


Or, if at midnight I must meet you, 


On eyes of blue or lips carnation, 


Within your mansion let me greet you 


Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, 


There we can love for hours together, 


Howe'er those beauties may distract us 


Much better, in such snowy weather, 


Still fickle, we are prone to rove, 


Than placed in all th' Arcadian grove* 


These cannot fix our souls to love. 


That ever witness'd rural loves; 


It is not too severe a stricture 


Then, if my passion fail to please, 


To say they form a pretty picture ; 


Next night I'll be content to freeze; 


But wouldst thou see the secret chain 


No more I'll give a loose to laughter. 


Which binds us in your humble train, 


But curse my fate for ever alter. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



145 



OSCAR OF ALVA. 



They feast upon the mountain deer 
The pibroch raised its piercing note:* 

To gladden more their highland cheer, 
The strains in martial numbers float: 



How sweetly shines through azure skies 
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; 

Where Alva's hoary turrets rise, 
And hear the U ; of arms no mor« 

But often has yon rolling moon 
On Alva's casques of silver play'd ; 

And view'd, at midnight's silent noon. 
Her chiefs in gleaming mail array 'cl • 

And on the crimson'd rocks beneath, 
Which scowl o'er ocean's sullen flow 

Pale in the scatter'd ranks of death, 
She saw the gasping warrior low ; 

While many an eye which ne'er again 
Could mark the rising orb of day, 

rurn'd feebly from the gory plain, 
Beheld in death her fading ray. 

Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, 
They blest her dear propitious light, 

But now she glimmer' d from above, 
A sad, funereal torch of night 

Faded is Alva s noble race, 

And gray her towers are seen afar; 
No more her heroes urge the chase, 

Or roll the crimson tide of war. 



And they who heard the war-notes wild 
Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain 

Should play before the hero's child 
While he should lead '-he tartan train, 

Another year is quickly past, 

And Angus hails another son; 
His natal day is like the last, 

Nor soon the jocund feast was done. 

Taught by their sire to bend the bow 

On Alva's dusky hills of wind, 
The boys in childhood chased the roe, 

And left their hounds in speed behind. 

But ere their years of youth are o'er, 
They mingle in the ranks of war ; 

They lightly wheel the bright claymore 
And send the whistling arrow far. 

Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, 
Wildly it stream 'd along the gale; 

But Allan's locks were bright and fail, 
And pensive seem'd his cheek, and pale. 

But Oscar own'd a hero s soul, 

His dark eye shone through beams of trui* 
Allan had early learn' d com ml. 

And smooth his words had been from youti 



But who was last of Alva's clan ? 

Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? 
Her towers resound no steps of man, 

They echo to the gale alone. 



Both, both were brave : the Saxon speai 
Was shiver'd oft beneath their steel ; 

And Oscar's bosom scorn'd to fear, 
But Oscar's bosom knew to feel ; 



\ni when that g'^le is fierce and high, 
A sound is heard in yonder hall; 

[t rises hoarsely through the sky, 
And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. 

Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, 
It shakes the shield of Oscar brave; 

But there no more his banners rise, 
No more his plumes of sable wave. 

Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, 
When Angus hail'd his eldest born ; 

The vassals round their chieftain's hearth 
Crowd to applaud the happy morn. 



11 



While Allan's soul belied his form, 
Unworthy with such charms to dwell : 

Keen as the lightning of the storm. 
On foes his deadly vengeance fell. 

From high Southannon's distant tower 
Arrived a young and noble dame ; 

With Kenneth's lands to form her dowr, 
Glenalvon's blue-eyed daughter came ; 

And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, 

. nd Angus on his Oscar smiled: 
It soothed the father's feudal pride 
s to obtain Glenalvon's child 



146 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
In joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the coral peal prolong. 



" Oscar! my son ! — thou God of Heav'. 

Restore the prop of sinking age ! 
Or if that hope no more is given, 

Yield his assassin to my rage. 



See how the heroes' blood-red plumes 
Assemble;! wave in Alva's hull ; 

Each youth his varied plaid assumes, 
Attending on their chieftain's call. 



" Yes, on some desert rocky shore 
My Oscar's whiten 'd bones must lie; 

Then grant, thou God ! I ask no more, 
With him his frantic sire may die ! 



It is not war their aid demands, 

The pibroch plays the song of peace ; 

To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, 
Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. 



" Yet he may live, — away, despair! 

Be calm, my soul ! he. yet may live 
T* arraign my fate, my voice forbear! 

God ! my impious prayer forgive 



But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: 
Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? 

While thronging guests and ladies wait, 
Nor Oscar nor his brother came. 



" What, if he live for me no more, 
I sink forgotten in the dust, 

The hope of Alva's age is o'er; 

Alas! can pangs like these he just?' 



At length young Allan join'd the bride: 
" Why comes not Oscar," Angus said : 

" Is he not here ?" the youth replied ; 
" With me he roved not o'er the glade 

'' Perchance, forgetful of the day, 
'T is his to chase the bounding roe ; 

Or ocean's waves prolong his stay ; 
Yet Oscar's bark is seldom slow." 



Thus did the hapless parent mourn, 
Till Time, which soothes severest woe 

Had bade serenity return, 

And made the tear-drop cease to flow- 

For still some latent hope survived 
That Oscar might once more appear ; 

Plis hope now droop'd and now revived, 
Till Time had told a tedious rear. 



" Oh, no !" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, 
" Nor chase nor wave my boy delay ; 

Wool. I he to Mora seem unkind ? 

Would aught to her impede his way ? 

" Oh, search, ye chiefs ! oh, search around 
Allan, with these through Alva fly ; 

/"ill Oscar, till my son is found, 

Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." 

■.11 is confusion — through the vale 
The name of Oscar hoarsely rings, 

It rises on the murmuring gale, 

Till night expands her dusky wings ; 

It breaks the stillness of the night, 

But echoes through her shades in vain, 

It sounds through morning's misty light, 
But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. 

rhree days, three sleepless nights' the Chief 
For Oscar search'd each mountain cave! 

Then hope is lost ; in boundless grief, 
His locks in gray-torn ringle's wave. 



Days roll'd along, the orb of light 
Again had run his destined race; 

No Oscar bless'd his father's sight, 
And sorrow left a fainter trace. 

Foi youthful Allan still remain'd, 
And now his father's only joy: 

And Mora's heart was quickly gain'd, 
For beauty crown'd the fair-hair' d boy 

She thought that Oscar low was laid. 
And Allan's face was wondrous fair; 

If Oscar lived, some other maid 

Had claim'd his faithless bosom's caje 

And Angus said, if one year m re 
In fruitless hope"was pass'd away. 

His fondest scruples should be o'er, 
And he would name their nuptial day. 

Slow roll'd the moons, hut blest at last 
Arrived the dearly destined morn ; 

The year of anxious trembling past. 
What smiles the lovers' cheeks adorn 







f m 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



147 



Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note ! 

Hark to the swelling nuptial song! 
Ill joyous strains the voices float, 

And still the coral peal prolong. 

Again the clan, in festive crowd, 

Throng through the gate of Alva's hall ; 

The sounds of mirth re-echo loud, 
And all their former joy recall. 

But who is he, whose darken'd brow 
Glooms in the midst of general mirth? 

Before his eyes' far fiercer glow 

The blue flames curdle o'er the hearth. 

Dark is the robe which wraps his form, 
And tall his plume of gory red ; 

His voice is like the rising storm, 
But light and trackless is his tread. 

Tis noon of night, the pledge goes round, 
The hridegroom's health is deeply quafl"d ; 

With shouts the vaulted roofs resound, 
And all combine to hail the draught. 

Sudden the stranger-chief arose, 

And all the clamorous crowd are hush'd ; 
And Angus' cheek with wonder glows, 

And Mora's tender bosom blush'd. 

" Old man !" he criea, " this pledge is done; 

Thou saw'st 'twas duly drank by me : 
It hail'd the nuptials of thy son : 

Now will I claim a pledge from thee. 

" While all around is mirth and joy, 

To bless thy Allan's happy lot, 
Say, had'st thou ne'er another boy ? 

Say, why should Oscar be forgot?" 

" Alas !" the hapless sire replied, 
The big tear starting as he spoke, 

'* When Oscar left my hall, or died, 
This aged heart was almost broke. 

" Thrice has the earth revolved her course 
Since Oscar's form has bless'd my sight ; 

And Allan is my last resource, 

Since martial Oscar's death or flight." 

" 'T is well," replied the stranger stern, 
And fiercely flash'd his rolling eye : 

" Thy Oscar's fate I fain would learn : 
Perhaps the hero did not die 



" Perchance, if those whom most he loved 
Would call, thy Oscar might return ; 

Perchance the chief has only roved; 
For him thy beltane yet may burn.&> 

" Fill high the bowl the table round, 

We will not claim the pledge bj stealth ; 

With wine let every cup be crown A ; 
Pledge me departed Oscar's health." 

" With all my soul," old Angus said, 
And fill'd his goblet to the brim ; 

" Here s to my boy ! alive or dead, 
I ne'er shall find a son like him." 

" Bravely, old man, this health has sped ; 

But why does Allan trembling stand ? 
Come, drink rememb.unce of the dead, 

And raise thy cup with firmer hand." 

The crimson glow of Allan's face 
Was turn'd at once to ghastly hue ; 

The drops of death each other chase 
A down in agonizing d^w. 

Thrice did he raise the goblet high, 
And thrice his lips refused to taste ; 

For thrice he caught the stranger's eye 
On his with deadly fury placed. 

" And is it thus a brother hails 

A brother's fond remembrance here ? 

If thus affection's strength prevails, 
What might we not expect from fear ?" 

Roused by the sneer, he raised the bowl, 
" Would Oscar now could share our mirth P 

Internal fear appall'd his soul ; 

He said, and dash'd the cup to earth. 

" 'T is he ! I hear my murderer's voice !" 
Loud shrieks a darkly gleaming form, 

" A murderer's voice !" the roof replies 
And deeply swells the bursting storm. 

The tapers wink, the chieftains shrinn, 
The stranger 's gone, — amidst the erew 

A form was seen in tartan green, 
And tall the shade terrific grew. 

His waist was bound with a broad belt round 
His plume of sable stream'd on high : 

But his breast was bare, with the red worn: Is 
there, 
And fix'd was the glare of his glassy rye. 



148 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Axd thrice he smiled, with his eye so wild, 
On Angus bending low the knee ; [ground, 

And thrice he frown'd on a chief on the 
Whom shivering crowds with horror see. 

The bolts load roll, from pole to pole, 
The thunders through the welkin ring, 

And the gleaming form, through the mist of 
the storm, 
Was borne on high by the whirlwind's wing. 

Cold was the feast, the revel ceased, 

Who lies upon the stony floor ? 
Oblivion press'd old Angus' breast, 

At length his life-pulse throbs once more. 



What minstrel gray, what hoary baid, 
Shall Allan's deeds on harp-strings raise ? 

The song is glory's chief reward, 

But who can strike a murderer's praise? 

Unstrung, untouch'd, the harp must stand. 

No minstrel dare the theme awake ; 
Guilt would benumb his palsied hand, 

His harp in shuddering chords would break 

No lyre of fame, no hallow'd verse, 
Shall sound his glories high in air : 

A dying father's bitter curse, 

A brother's death-groan echoes there. 



" Away, away ! let the leech essay 
To pour the light on Allan's eyes :" 

His sand is done, — his race is run ; 
Oh ! never more shall Allan rise ! 

But Oscar's breast is cold as clay 
His locks are lifted by the gale : 

And Allan's barbed arrow lay 

With him in dark Glentaruu 3 vale. 

And whence the dreadful stranger came, 
Or who, no mortal wight can tell ; 

But no one doubts the form of flame, 
For Alva's sons knew Oscar well. 

Ambition nerved young Allan's hand, 
Exujting demons wing'd his dart; 

While TCnvy waved her burning brand, 
And pour'd her venom round his heart 

Swift is the shaft from Allan's bow , 

Whose streaming life-blood stains his side? 

Dark Oscar's sable crest is low, 
The dart has drunk his vital tide. 

And Mora s eye could Allan move, 
She bade his woumled pride rebel ; 

Alas ! that eyes which beam'd with love 
Should urge the soul to deeds of helh 

Lo ! seest thou not a lonely tomb 
Which rises o'er a warrior dead ? 

It glimmers through the twilight gloom ; 
Oh ! that is Allan's nuptial bed. 

Far, distant far, the noble grave 
Which held his clan's great ashes stood; 

&nd o'er ids corse no banners wave, 
For they were stain'd with kindred blood. 



THE EPISODE OF NISUS AND 
EURYALUS, 

A PARAPHRASE FROM THE iENEID, Lib. IX 

Nisus, the guardian of the portal, stood, 
Eager to gild his arms with hostile blood; 
Well skill'd in fight the quivering lance to wield, 
Or pour his arrows through th' embattled field . 
From Ida torn, he left his sylvan cave, 
And sought a foreign home, a distant grave. 
To watch the movements of the Daunian host, 
With him Euryalus sustains the post; 
No lovelier mien adorn'd the ranks of Troy, 
And beardless blooinyet graced the gallant boy ; 
Though few the seasons of his youthful life. 
As yet a novice in the martial strife, 
T was his, with beauty, valour's gifts to share—* 
A soul heroic, as his form was fair: [love; 
These burn with one pine flame of generous 
In peace, in war, united still they move; 
Friendship and glory form their joint reward, 
And now combined they hold their nightly 
guard 

" What god, exclaim'd the first, " instils 

this fire ? 
Or, in itself a god, what great desire? 
My labouring soul, with anxious thought 

oppress'd, 
Abhors this station of inglorious rest, 
The love of fame with this can ill accord, 
Be 't mine to seek for glory with my sword 
Seest thou yon camp, with torches twinkling 

dim, 
Where drunken slumbers wrap each lazy limb* 
Where confidence and ease the watch disdain 
And drowsy Silence holds her sable reign ? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



149 



Tnen hear my thought: — In deep ana sulien 
grief [chief: 

Our troops and leaders mourn their absent 
Now could the gifts and promised prize be thine 
(The deed, the danger, and the fame be mine), 
Were this decreed, beneath yon rising mound 
Methinks, an easy path perchance were found; 
Which past, I speed my way to Pallas walls 
And lead iEneas from Evander's halls." 

With equal ardour fired, and warlike joy, 
His glowing friend address'd the Dardan boy : — 
'* These deeds, my Nisus, shalt thou dare alone? 
Must all the fame, the peril, be thine own? 
Am I by thee despised, and left afar, 
^s one unfit to share the toils of war? 
Not thus his son the great Opheltes taught ; 
Not thus my sire in Argive combats fought; 
Not thus, when Ilion fell by heavenly hate, 
I track'd ^Eneas through the walks of fate : 
Thou know'st my deeds, my breast devoid o 

fear, 
And hostile life-drops dim my gory spear 
Heie is a soul with hope immortal burns, 
And life, ignoble life, for glory spurns. 
Fame, fame is cheaply earn'd by Meeting breath- 
The price of honour is the sleep of death." 

I hen Nisus, — " Calm thy bosom's fona 

alarms, 
Thy heart beats fiercely to the din of arms. 
More dear thy worth and valour than my own, 
I swear by him who fills Olympus throne ! 
So may I triumph, as I speak the truth. 
And clasp again the comrade of my youth ! 
But should I fall, — and he who dares advance 
""hrough hostile legions must abide bj 

chance, — 
If some Rutulian arm, with adverse blow, 
Should lay the friend who ever loved thee low. 
Live thou, such beauties I would fain preserve, 
Thy budding years a lengthen'd term deserve. 
When humbled in the dust, let some one be, 
Whose gentle eyes will shed one tear for me; 
■Whose manly arm may snatch me back by force, 
Or wealth redeem from foes my captive corse; 
Or, if my destiny these last deny, 
If in the spoiler's power my ashes lie, 
Thy pious care may raise a simple tomb, 
To mark thy love, and signalize ray doom. 
Why should thy doting wretched mother weep 
Her only boy, recline*, in endless sleep? 
Who, for thy sake, the tempest's fury dared, 
Who, for thy sake, war's deadly peril shared ; 
Who braved what woman never braved before, 
And left h«i nativ. for the Latian shore." 



" In vain you damp nc ardour of my «ml, 
Replied Euryalus: "it scorns conuol ! [arosf 
Hence, let us haste!" — their brother guard. 
Roused by their call, nor court again repose; 
The pair, buoy 'd up on Hope's exulting wing 
Their stations leave, and speed to seek the kin:* 

Now o'er the earth a solemn stillness ran, 
And lull'd alike the cares of brute and man ; 
Save where the Dardan leaders nightly hold. 
Alternate converse, and their plans unfold. 
On one great point the council are agreed, 
An instant message to their prince decreed ; 
Eachlean'd upon the lance he well could wield., 
And poised with easy arm his ancient shield ; 
When Nisus and his friend their leave request 
To offer something to their high behest. 
With anxious tremors, yet nnawed by fear, 
The faithful pair before the throne appear : 
lulus greets them ; at his kind command, 
The elder first address'd the hoary band. 

" With patience" (thus Hyrtacides began) 
" Attend, nor judge from youth our humble plan 

Where yonder beacons half expiring beam, 
Our slumbering foes of future conquest dream 
Nor heed that we a «> ;ret path have traced, 
Between the ocean and the portal placed. 
Beneath the covert of the blackening smoke. 
Whose shade securely our oesign will cloak . 
If you, ye chiefs, and fortune will allow, 
We'll bend our course to yonder mountain's 

brow, 
Where Pallas' walls at distance meet the sight 
Seen o'er the glade, when not obscured by night . 
Then shall ^Eneas in his pride return, [urn 
While hostile matrons raise their offspring's 
And Latian spoils and purpled heaps of dead 
Shall mark the havoc of ou- hero's tread. 
Such is our purpose, not unknown the way ; 
WTiere yonder torrent's devious waters stray, 
Oft have we seen, when hunting by the streaur, 
The distant spires above the valleys gleam." 

Mature in years, for sober wisdom famed, 
Moved by the speech, Alethes here exclaim'd, — 
" Ye parent gods! who rule the fate of Troy, 
Still dwell" the Dardan spirit in the boy ; 
When minds like these in striplings thus ye 

raise, 
Yours is the godlike act, be yours the praise; 
In gallant youth, my fainting hopes revive, 
And Ilion's wonted glories still survive." 
Then in his warm embrace the boys h« 

press 'd, 
And, quivering, strain'dthem to his aged breast 



150 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



With tears the burning cheek of each bedew'd, 
And, sobbing, thus his first discourse rerrew'd: 
" What gift, my countrymen, what martial prize 
Can we bestow, which you may not despise? 
Our deities the first best boon have given — 
Internal virtues are the gift of Heaven. 
What poor rewards can bless your deeds on 

earth, 
Doubtless await such young, exalted worth. 
.<Eneas and Ascanius shall combine 
To yield applause far, far surpassing mine." 
lulus then: — " By all the powers above! 
By those Penates who my country love! 
By hoary Vesta's sacred fane, I swear, 
My hopes are all in you, ye generous pair! 
Restore my father to my grateful sight, 
And all my sorrows yield to one delight. 
Nisns! two silver goblets are thine own. 
Saved from Arisba's stately domes o'erthrown 
My sire secured them on that fatal day, 
Nor left such bowls an Argive robber's prey : 
Two massy tripods, also, shall be thine; 
Two talents polish'd from the glittering mine ; 
An ancient cup, which Tynan Dido gave, 
While yet our vessels press'd the Punic wave* 
ButwheMhe hostile chiefs at length bow down 
When great ^Eneas wears Hesperia's crown, 
The casque, the buckler, and the fiery steed 
Which Turnus glides with more than mortal 

speed, 
Are thine; no envious lot shall then be cast, 
I pledge my word, irrevocably past: [dames, 
Nay more, twelve slaves, and twice six captive 
To soothe thy softer hours with amorous flames, 
And all the realms which now the Latins sway 
The labours of to-night shall well repay. 
But thou, my generous youth, whose tender 

years [veres, 

Are near my own, whose worth my heart re 
Henceforth affection, sweetly thus begun, 
Shall join our bos mas and our souls in one; 
Without thy aid, no glory shall be mine ; 
Without thy dear advice, no great design ; 
Alike through life esteem'd, thou godlike boy 
In war my bulwark, and in peace my joy." 

To him Euryalus : — " No day shall shame 
Thy rising glories which from this I claim. 
For me may favour, or the skies may frown 
Bu* '/alour, spite of fate, obtains renown. 
Yet, ere from hence our eager steps depart, 
One boon I beg, the nearest to my heart: 
My mother, sprung from Priam's royal line, 
Line Oiine ennobled, hardly less divine, 
N'-r T ny nor king Acestes' realms restrain 
r i ible age from dangers of the main ; 



Alone she came, all selfish fears abov«. 
A bright example of maternal love. 
Unknown the secret enterprise I brave, 
Lest grief should bend my parent to the grave 
From this alone no fond adieus I seek, 
No fainting mother's lips have press'd my cheek ; 
By gloomy night and thy right hand I vow 
Her parting tears would shake my furpo»6 

now : 
Do thou, my prince, her failing age sustain, 
In thee her much loved child may live again; 
Her dying hours with pious conduct bless, 
Assist her wants, relieve her fond distress: 
So dear a hope must all my soy] inflame. 
To rise in glory, or to fall in fame." 
Struck with a filial care so deeply felt. 
In tears at once the Trojan warriors melt: 
Faster than all, lulus' eyes o'erflow; 
Such love was his, and such had been his woe 
" All thou hast ask'd, receive," the prince 

replied ; 
" Nor this alone, but many a gift beside. 
To cheer thy mother's years shall be my aim, 
Creusa's 51 style but wanting to the dame. 
Fortune an adverse wayward course may run, 
But bless'd thy mother in so dear a son. 
Now,bymylife! — my sire's most sacred oath — 
To thee I pledge my full, my firmest troth, 
All the rewards which once to thee were vow d 
If thou shouldstfall, on her shall be bestow'd. 
Thus spoke the weeping prince, then forth to 

view 
A gleaming falchion from the sheath he drew; 
Lycaon's utmost skill had graced the steei. 
For friends to envy and for foes to feel: 
A tawny hide, the Moorish lion's spoil, 
Slain 'midst the forest, in the hunter's toil 
Mnestheus to guard the elder youth bestows, 
And old Alethes' casque defends his brows. 
Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled 

train, 
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain 
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace, 
lulus holds Anidst the chiefs his place : 
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers 

avail, 
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale ! 

The trench is passed, and, favour'd by the 
night, [flight. 

Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary 

When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? 

Alas! some slumber who shall wake no more! 

Chariots and bridles, mix'dwith amis, are seen; 

And Mowing flasks, and scatter'd troops be- 
tween : 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



151 



Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine; 
A. mingled chaos this of war and wine, [pare, 
" Now," cries the first, " for deeds of blood pre- 
With me the conquest and the labour share: 
Here lies our path ; lest any hand arise, 
Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain 

dies: 
I '11 carve our passage through the heedless foe, 
A iid clear thy road with many a deadly blow." 
His whispering accents then the youth repress'd, 
And pierced proud Rbamnes through his 

panting breast: 
Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed; 
Debauch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed 
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince, 
His omens more than augur's skill evince; 
But he, who thus foretold the fate of all, 
Could not avert his own untimely fall. 
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell, 
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell; 
The charioteer along his courser's sides 
Expires, the steel his sever'd neck divides; 
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead 
Bounding convulsive, flies the gasping head; 
From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents 

pour ; 
Stain'd is the. couch and earth with clotting gore 
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire, 
And gay Serranus, fiU'd with youthful fire; 
Half the long night in childish games was 

pass'd , 
Lull'd by the potent grape, he slept at last: 
Ah ! happier far had he the morn survey'd, 
And till Aurora's dawn his skill display Yl. 

In slaughter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep, 
ff is hungry fangs a lion thus may steep ; 
Mid the sad Hock, at dead of night he prowls, 
V'ith murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : 
Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams ; 
In seas of gore the lordly tyrant loams. 

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came > 
But falls on feeble crowds without a name ; 
His wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel 
Vet wakeful Rhaisus sees the threatening steel; 
His coward breast behind ajar he hides, 
And vainly in the weak defence confides ; 
Full in his heart, the falchion searched his veins, 
The reeking weapon bears alternate stains ; 
Through wine and blood, commingling as 

they flow. 
One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. 
Wow where Messapus dwelt they bend theii 
way, 
those fires emit a faint and trembling rajri 



There, nnconfinod, behold each grazing steed. 
Unwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: 
Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, 
Too fiush'd with carnage, and with conques' 

warm : 
"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is 

pass'd; r !aM . 

Full foes enough to-night nave breathed their 
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ; 
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn." 

With silver arms, with various art cmboss'd, 
What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, 
They leave regardless ! yet one glittering prize 
Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes ; 
The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, 
The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt • 
This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, 
Once by a line of former chieftains worn. 
Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, 
Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears ; 
Then from the tents their cautious steps they 

bend, 
To seek the vale where safer paths extend. 

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse 
To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course 
While the slow foot their tardy march delay, 
The knights, impatient, spur along the way : 
Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led 
To Turnus with their master's promise sped: 
Now they approach the trench, and view the 

walls, 
When, on the left, a light reflection falls ; 
Theplunder'd helmet, through the waning night 
Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. 
Volscens with question loud the pair alarms : — 
" Stand, stragglers 1 stand ! why early thus in 
arms? [reply! 

PVom whence, to whom?" — He meets with iu 
Trusting the covert of the night, they fly : 
The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread. 
While round the wood the hostile squadron 
spread. 

Wi th brakes entangled,scarce a path between. 
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene : 
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, 
Theboughsandwindingturnshissteps mislead: 
But Nisus scours along the forest's maz*- 
To where Latin us' steeds in safety graze, 
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend 
On every side they seek his absent friend. 
"Oh God! my boy," he cries, "'of me bereft, 
I» what impending perils art thou left'" 



152 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Listening he runs — above the waving trees, 
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze ; 
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around 
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground. 
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise; 
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys . 
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, 
While lengthening shades his weary way 

confound ; 
Him with loud shouts the furious knightspursue, 
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. 
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers 

dare ? 
Ah ! must he rash, his comrade's fate to share ? 
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay, 
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey? 
His life a votive ransom nobly give, 
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live? 
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high, 
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye: — 
" Goddess serene, transcending every star ! 
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar ! 
Bynight heaven owns thy sway ,by day the grove, 
When.as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove : 
If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace 
Thine altars with the produce of the chase. 
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting 

crowd, 
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." 
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung ; 
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon 

sung ; 
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, 
Transfix'U his heart, and stretch'd him on the 

clay : 
He sobs, he dies, — the troop in wild amaze, 
Unconscious whence the death, with horror 

gaze. [riven, 

While pale they stare, through Tagus temples 
A second shaft with equal force is driven. 
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes; 
'eil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lies, 
h irning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall. 
" Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all !" 
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he 

drew, 
And, ragi*g, on the boy defenceless flew. 
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals, 
Forth, forth ho starts, and all his love reveals: 
Aghast, confused, his fears to madness rise, 
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies : 
"Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone; 
Here sheathe the steel , my blood i s all your own. 
Ve starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! 
attest! [lest! 

H« could not- durst not — lo! the guile con- 



All, all was mine, — his early fate sv-spf.nd ; 
He only loved too well his hapless fliend : 
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage 

remove ; 
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." 
He pray'd in vain ; the dark assassin's sword 
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored , 
Lowly to earth inclines his plume- "lad crest, 
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast : 
As some young rose, whose blossom scenti 

the air, 
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ; 
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, 
Declining gently, falls a fading flower ; 
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, 
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead. 

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, 
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ; 
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host, 
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's 

ghost: [foe, 

Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on 
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every 

b'ow ; 
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds, 
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; 
In viewless circles whecl'd, his falchion flies, 
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ; 
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, 
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the 

wound. 
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved— 
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ; 
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place, 
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace. 

Celestial pair ! if augnt my verse can claim, 
Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame: 
Ages on ages shall your fate admire, 
No future day shall see your names expire. 
While stands the Capitol, immortal dome ! 
And vanquish'd millions hail their empress. 
Rome , 



TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEi 
OF EURIPIDES. 

['Egurts virii> fit* ayotv, x.r.X.J 

When fierce conflicting passions urg« 
The breast where love is wont to glow 

What mind can stem the stormy surge 
Which rolls the tide of human woe? 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



153 



The hope of praise, the dreaa of shame, 
Can rouse the tortured breast no more; 

Th? wild desire, the guilty flame, 
Absorbs each wish it felt before. 

But if affection gently thrills 

The soul by purer dreams possest, 
The pleasing balm of mortal ills 

In love can soothe the aching breast* 
If tints thou comest in disguise, 

Fair Venus ' from thy native heaven, 
What heart unfeeling would despise 

The sweetest boon the gods have given ? 

But never from thy golden bow 

May I beneath the shaft expire ! 
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, 

Awakes an all-consuming fire : 
Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears ! 

With others wage internal war; 
Repentance, source of future tears, 

From me be ever distant far ! 

May no distracting thoughts destroy 

The holy calm of sacred love ! 
May all 'he hours be wing'd with joy, 

Which hover faithful hearts above! 
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine 

May I with some fond lover sigh, 
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine— 

With me to live, with me to die. 

My native soil ! beloved before, 

Now dearer as my peaceful home, 
Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, 

A hapless banish' d wretch to roam ! 
This very day, this very hour, 

May I resign this fleeting breath ! 
Nor quit my silent humble bower ; 

A doom to me far worse than death. 

Have I not heard the exde's sigh ? 

And seen the exile's silent tear, 
Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, 

A pensive weary wanderer here? 
Ah ! hapless dame 5 ' 2 ! no sire bewails. 

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, 
No kindred voice with rapture hails 

Thy steps within a stranger s doors. 

Perish the fiend whose iron heart, 

To fair affection's truth unknown, 
Bids her he fondly loved depart, 

Unpitied, helpless, and alone ; 
Who ne'er unlocks with silver key 53 

The milder treasures of his soul, — 
.vjay such a friend be far from mo. 

Ami ocean's storms between us roll' 



THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COL 
LEGE EXAMINATION. 

High in the midst, surrounded by his peers, 
Magnus 5 -* his ample front sublime uprears: 
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, 
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. 
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom. 
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding domi 
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, 
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. 

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried 
Though little versed in any art beside; 
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, 
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. 
What,though heknows not how his fathers bled, 
When civil discord piled the fields with dead. 
When Edward bade his conquering bands ad- 
vance, 
Or Henry trampled on the crc-t of France: 
Though marvelling at the name of Magna 

Charta, 
Yet well he recollects the law of Sparta; 
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, 
While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected laid, 
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame 
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name 

Such is the youth whose scientific pate 
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; 
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, 
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. 
But lo ! no common orator can hope 
The envied silver cup within his scope. 
Not that our heads much eloquence require, 
Th' Athenian's 55 glowing style, or Tully'srira 
A manner clear or warm is useless, since 
We do not try by speaking to convince. 
Be other orators of pleasing proud: 
We speak to please ourselves, not move th« 

crowd : 
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, 
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan. 
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen, 
The slightest motion would displease tin 

Dean ; 55 
Whilst every staring graduate would prate 
Against what he could never imitate 

The man who hopes t' obtain the promised cup 
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up. 
Nor stop, but rattle over every word — 
No matter what, so it can not be heard. 
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest : 
Who speaks the fastest 'a sure tospca'- '.he best; 



154 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Who utters most within the shortest space 
May safely hope to win the wordy race. 

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, 
Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; 
Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie 
Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die : 
Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, 
They think all learning fix'd within their walls: 
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, 
All modern arts affecting to despise: 
Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's 

note, 
More than the verse on which the critic wrote : 
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, 
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; 
To friendship dead, though not untaught to 

feel 
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. 
With eager haste they court the lord of power, 
Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; 
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bind the 

head, 
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. 
Butshould a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, 
They'd fly to seek the next who rill'd his place. 
Such are the men who learning's treasures 

guard ! 
Such is their pract'ce, such is their reward ! 
This much, at least we may presume to say — 
The premium can't exceed the price thev pay. 

1806. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. 

Sweet girl ! though only once we met, 
That meeting I shall ne'er forget ; 
And though we ne'er may meet again, 
Remembrance will thy form retain. 
I would w»' say, " I love," but still 
My senses struggle with my will : 
In vain, to drive thee from my breast, 
My thoughts are more and more represt; 
In vain I check the rising sighs, 
Another to the last replies : 
Perhaps this is not love, but yet 
Our meeting I can ne'er forget. 

What though we never silence broke, 
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke ; 
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals, 
And tells a tale it never feels: 
Deceit the guilty lips impart; 
And hush the mandates of the heart; 



But soul's interpreters, the eyes, 

Spurn such restraint, and scorn di guise. 

As thus our glances oft conversed, 

And all our bosoms felt rehearsed. 

No spirit, from within, reproved us. 

Say rather, "'twas the spirit moved us.' 

Though what they utter'd I repress, 

Yet I conceive thou 'It partly guess; 

For as on thee my memory ponders, 

Perchance to me thine also wanders. 

This for myself, at least, I 11 say, 

Thy form appears through night, througl 

day : 
Awake, with it my fancy teems ; 
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams : 
The vision charms the hours away, 
And bids me curse Aurora's ray. 
For breaking slumbers of delight, 
Which make me wish for endless night. 
Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate, 
Shall joy or woe my steps await, 
Tempted by love, by storms beset, 
Thine image I can ne'er forget. 

Alas ! again no more we meet, 
No more our former looks repeat ; 
Then let me breathe this parting prayer. 
The dictate of my bosom's care : 
" May Heaven so guard my lovely quakei 
That anguish never can o'ertake her; 
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her, 
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker ' 
Oh ! may the happy mortal, fated 
To be, by dearest ties, related, 
For her each hour new joys discover, 
And lose the husband in the lover *. 
May that fair bosom never know 
What 't is to 1'eel the restless woe, 
Which stings the soul with vain regret, 
Of him who never can forget ! " 



THE CORNELIAN.^ 

N' specious splendour of this stone 
Endears it to my memory ever ; 

\\ ith lustre only o«ce it shone. 
And blushes modest as the giver. 

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties, 
Have, for my weakness, oi't removed m 

Yet still the simple gift I prize, — 
For I am sure the giver loved me. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



155 



He oflfer'd it with downcast look, 
As fearful that I iu»ght refuse it ; 

T told him when the girt I took, 
My only feai snould be to lose it. 

This pledge attentively I view'd, 
And sparkling as I held it near, 

Mcrhought one drop the stone bedcw'd, 
And ever since I 've loved a tear. 

Still, to adorn his humble youth, 

Nor wealth, nor birth their treasures yield : 

But he who seeks the flowers of truth, 
Must quit the gar-den far the field. 

T is not the plant uprear'd in sloih, 

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; 

The flowers which yield the most of both 
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom. 

Had Fortune aided Nature's care, 
For once forgetting to be blind, 

His would have been an ample share, 
If well proportion' d to his mind. 

But had the goddess clearly seen, 

His form had fixed her tickle breast ; 

K^r countless hoards would his have been, 
And none remain' d to give thee rest. 



AN OCCASIONA7 PROLOGUE, 

• ELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE 
OF "THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRI- 
VATE THEATRE." 57 

iWCE the refinement of this polish'd age 
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ; 
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, 
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ; 
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek, 
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek ; 
Oh let the modest Muse some pity claim, 
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame. 
Still, not for her alone we wish respect, 
Others appear more conscious of delect: 
To-night no veteran Koscii you behold, 
.n all the arts of scenic action old ; 
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, 
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear; 
To-night you throng to witness the debut 
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new : 
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try; 
Clip not our pinions ere tie birds can fly • 



FaiJng in this our first attempt to soar, 
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more. 
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays, 
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet youl 

praise ; 
But all our dramatis persona? wait 
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. 
No venal- views our progress can retard, 
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward 
For these, each Hero all his power displays, 
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze 
Surely the last will some protection find ; 
None to the softer sex can prove unkind : 
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield, 
The sternest censor to the fair must yield. 
Yet, should our feeble eflbrts nought avail, 
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail, 
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live, 
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive. 



ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, 

THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU 
APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. 

" Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, 
But bless the hour when Pitt resign 'd his breath 
These feelings wide, let sense and truth undue 
We give the palm where Justice points its due.' 

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECKS 
SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY. 

Oh factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth 
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth. 
What though our " nation's foes" lament the fate 
With generous feeling, of the good and great. 
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name 
Of him whose meed exists in endless lame ? 
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, 
Though ill success obscured his dying hour, 
Pity her dewy wings before him spread, 
For noble spirits "war not with the dead :" 
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave 
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave ; 
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight 
Of cares o'crwhelming our conflicting state : 
When, lo ! a Hercules in Fox appear'd. 
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd : 
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied, 
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died; 
Not one great people only raise his am, 
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn. 



156 



HO (IRS OF IDLENESS. 



* These feelings wide, let sense and truth un- 
due, 
'1 o give the paim where Justice points its due ;" 
Vet let not canker'd Calumny assail, 
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil 
Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world 

must weep, 
Whose dear remains in honour' d marble sleep ; 
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan, 
While friends and foes alike his talents own; 
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine, 
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ; 
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, 
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.58 



THE TEAR. 

11 O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacro» 
Ducemium ortus ex animo ; quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." — Gray. 

When Friendship or Love our sympathies 
move, 

When Truth in a glance should appear, 
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile, 

But the test of affection 's a Tear. 

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite s wile, 

To mask detestation or fear ; 
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling 
eye 

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear 

Mild Charity s giow, to us mortals oelow, 
Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; 

Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt, 
And its dew is diffused in a Tear. 

The man doorn'd to sail with the blast of the 
gale, 
Through billows Atlantic to steer, 
A ; he bends o'er the wave which may soon 
be his grave, 
T) e green sparkles bright with a Tear. 

The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath 

In Glory's romantic career ; 
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, 

And bathes every wound with a Tear. 

If with high-bounding pride he return to his 
bride, 
Renouncing the gore-crimson' d spear, 
All his toils are repaid when, embracing the 
maid, 
From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. 



Sweet scene of my youth 59 ! seat of Friendshif 

and Truth. 

Where love chased each fas* meeting year, 

Loth to leave thee. I mourn d, for a last looi 

I turned. [Tear. 

But thy spire was scarce seen through a 

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary nc 
more, 

My Mary to Love once so dear ; 
In the shade of her bower I remember the houi 

She rewarded those vows with a Tear. 

By another possest, may she live ever blest ! 

Her name still my heart must revere : 
With a sigh I resign what 1 once though, 
was mine, 

And forgive her deceit with a Tear. 

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart 
This hope to my breast is most near : 

If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, 
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear. 

When my soui wings her flight to the regions 
of night, 
And my corse shall recline on its bier, 
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes con- 
sume, 
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear. 

May no marole bestow the splendour of woe, 
Which the children of vanity rear ; 

No fiction of fame shall blazon my name , 
All I ask — all I wish — is a Tear. 

October 26th, 1806 



REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M 

B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY 

OF HIS MISTRESS. 

WHV.Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain. 
Why thus in despair do you fret ? 

For months you may try, yet, oeiieve ine, a 
sigh 
Will never obtain a coquette. 

Would you teach her to love? for a tira« 
seern to rove ; 

At first she may frown in a pet ; 
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile 

And then you may kiss your coquette. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



157 



Fca? such are the a.rs of thesa fanciful fairs, 
They think all our homage a debt 

Ye! a partial neglect soon takes an effect, 
And humbles the proudest coquette. 

Dissemble yo>\r pain, and lengthen your chain, 
And seem her hauteur to regret; 

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny 
That yours is the rosy coquette. 

If still, from false pride, yourspangs she deride, 

This whimsical virgin forget ; 
Some other admire, who will melt with your 
fire, 

And laugh at the little coquette. 

for me, I adore some twenty or more, 
And love them most dearly ; but yet, 

Though my heart they enthral, I 'd abandon 
them all, 
Did they act like your blooming coquette. 

No longer repine, adopt this design, 
And break through her slight-woven net ; 

Away with despair, no longer forbear 
To fly from the captious coquette. 

Then quit her, my friend ! your bosom defend, 

Ere quite with her snares you 're beset : 
Lest your deep wounded heart, when incensed 
by the smart, 
Should lead you to curse the coquette. 

October 27th, 1806. 



Since the " world you forget, when your !ip» 
once have met," 
My counsel will get but abuse 

You say, when "I rove, 1 know nothing oj 
love;" 

'Tis true, I am given to range 
III rightly remember, I 've loved a good number, 

Yet there 's pleasure, at least, in a change. 

I will not advance, by the rules of romance. 

To humour a whimsical fair ; 
Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't 
affright, 

Or drive me to dreadful despair 

White my blood is thus warm I ne er shall reform 
To mix in the Platonists' school; 

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure. 
Thy mistress would think me a fool. 

And if I should shun every woman for one. 

Whose image must fill my whole breast — 
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for hei — 

What an insult 'twould be to the rest ' 

Now, Strephon, good bye ; I cannot deny 
Your passion appears most absurd ; 

Such love as you plead is pure love indeed. 
For it only consists in the word 



TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. 

l'otiR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did 
offend, 

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er : 
From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, 

But I swear 1 will do so no more. 

Since yo^beautifulmaid your flame has repaid, 

No more 1 your folly regret; 
She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine 

Of this quickly reformed coquette. 

Yetstill, 1 must own, I shouklnever have known 
From your verses, what else she deserved ; 

Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate, 
As your fair was so devilish reserved 

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical 
nrss 
Can such wonderful transports produce : 



TO ELIZA.60 

Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect, 
Who to woman deny the soul's future exisl 

ence, [defect, 

Could they «ee thee, Eliza, they'd own theii 
And this doctrine would meet with a general 

resistance. 

Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of 
sense, [driven 

He ne'er would have women from paradise 
Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence, 

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. 

Yet still, to increase your calamities more, 

Not content with depriving your bodies ol 

spirit, [four :— 

He allots one poor husband to share amongs. 

With souls you'd dispense; but this las 

who could bear it? 



158 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



H is religion to please neither party is made ; 

On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most 

uncivil; [said, 

Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been 

" Though women are angels, yet wedlock 's 

- the devil.' 



LACHIN Y GAIR.6V 

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses I 

In you let the minions of luxury rove ; 
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake 
reposes, [love: 

Though still they are sacred to freedom ai>d 
i'et, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains, 

Round their white summits though elements 

war; [ing fountains, 

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flow-, 

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. 

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy 
wander'd; [plaid;*** 

My eap was the bonnet, my cloak was the 
On chieftains long perish'd my memory pon 
der'd, Lghule. 

As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd 
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory 
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar 
star ; 
For fancy was cheer'd by traditional story, 
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na 
GaiT. 

' Shades of thi dead ! have I not heard your 
voiees 
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?" 
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices, [vale. 
Andrideson the wind, o'erhisown Highla*d 
Round Loch na Garr while the stormy mist 
gathers, 
Winter presides in his cold icy car : 
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers; 
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch 
na Garr. 

'' Ill-starr' d63 ( though brave, did no visions 
foreboding 
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?" 
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 64 

Victory crown d not your fall with applause : 
Still were you happy in death's earthy slumber, 
You rest with yo it clan in the caves of 
Braemar ;*& 



The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loul num- 
ber, 
Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na 
Garr. 

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, sim* . 
left you, 
Years must elapse ere I tread you again. 
Nature of verdure and flow'rs has bereft you, 
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain. 
England! thy beauties are tame and domesitie 
To one who has roved o'er the moiuita us 
afar : 
Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic 1 
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na 
Garr. 



TO ROMANCE. 

Parent of golden dreams, Romance 

Auspicious queen of childish joys 
Who lead'st along, in airy dance, 

Thy votive train of girls and boys; 
At length, in spells no longer bound, 

I break the fetters of my youth; 
No more I tread thy mystic round, 

But leave thy realms for those of Truth 

And yet 'tis hard to quit the dreams 

Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, 
Where every nymph a goddess seems, 

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll ; 
While Fancy holds her boundless reign, 

And all assume a varied hue; 
When virgins seem no longer vain, 

And even woman's smiles are true. 

And must we own thee but a name, 

And from thy hail of clouds descend ? 
Nor rind a sylph in every dame, 

APyladesM in every friend? 
But leave at once thy realms of air 

To mingling bands of fairy elves; 
Confess that woman's false as fair, 

And friends have feeling for — themselves 

With shame I own I've felt thy sway 

Repentant, now thy reign is o er : 
No more thy precepts I obey, 

No more on fancied pinions soar. 
Fond I'ool ! to love a sparkling eye, 

And think that eye to truth was dear; 
To trust a passing wanton's sigh, 

And melt bene?th a wanton's tear! 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Romance! disgusted with deceit, 

Far from thy motley court I fly, 
Where Affectation holds her seat, 

And sickly Sensibility ; 
Whose silly tears can never flow 

For any pangs excepting thine; 
Who turns aside from real woe, 

To steep in dev thy gaudy shrine. 

Now join with sable Sympathy, 

VA ith cypress crown'd, array 'd in weeds 

Win) heaves with thee her simple sigh, 
Whose breast Tor every bosom bleeds; 

And call thy sylvan female choir, 
To mourn a swain for ever gone, 

Who once could glow with equal fire, 
But bends not now before thy throne. 

Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears, 

On all occasions swiftly How ; 
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears, 

With fancied flames and phrenzy glow ; 
Say, will you mourn my absent name, 

Apostate from your gentle train ? 
An infant bard at least may claim 

From you a sympathetic strain. 

\dieu, fond race! a long adieu! 

The hour of fate is hovering nigh; 
E'en now the gulph appears in view, 

Where unlamented you must lie: 
Oblivion's blackening lake is seen, 

Convulsed by gales you cannot weather ; 
Where you, and eke your gentle queen, 

Alas ! must perish altogether. 



ANSWER TO SOME ELEGANT 
VERSES 

VKNT BY A FRIEND TO THIS AUTHOR, COM- 
1'I.AINING THAT (INK OF HIS DESCRIP- 
T IONS WAS RATHER TOO WARMLY DRAWN. 

But if any old lady, knight, priest, orphysician, 
Should condemn me for printing a second 

edition ; 
If good Madam Squintum my work should 

abuse, 
May I venture to give her a smack of my 

muse?" New Bath Guide. 

Candour compels me, Becher! 6 ' to com- 
mend [friend. 
The verse which blends the censor with the 
Your strong yet just reproof extorts applause 
From me, the heedless and imprudent cause. 



For this wild error which pervades my strain 

I sue for pardon, — must I sue in vain ? 

The wise sometimes from Wisdom's wayi 

depart : 
Can youth then hush the dictates of the heart? 
Precepts of prudence curb, but can't eouUol, 
The fierce emotions of the flowing sold. 
When Love's delirium haunts the glowing 

mind, 
Limping Decorum lingers far behind: 
Vainly the dotard mends her prudish pace, 
Outstriptand vanquish'd in the mental chase, 
The young, the old, have worn the chains of love 
Let those they ne'er confined my lay reprove 
Let those whose souls contemn the pleasing 

power 
Their censures on the hapless victim shower. 
Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, 
The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng. 
Whose labour'd lines in chilling numbers flow. 
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know! 
The artless Helicon I boast is youth; — 
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simpletruth 
Far be 't from me the " virgin's mind" to 

" taint:" 
Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint. 
The maid whose virgin breast is'void of guile. 
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile, 
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton lew- 
Finn in her virtue's strength, yet not severe — 
She whom a conscious grace shall thus re-fine 
Will ne'er be " tainted" by a strain of mine. 
But for the nymph whose premature desires 
Torment her bosom with unholy fires, 
No net to snare her willing heart is spread; 
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had 

read. 
For me, I fain would please the chosen few. 
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true, 
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy 
The light effusions of a heedless boy. 
I seek not glory from the senseless crowd ; 
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud : 
Their wannest plaudits I would scarcely prize. 
Their sneers or censures I alike despise. 

November 26, 1806. 



ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY .«> 

" It is the voice of years that are gone! thej 
roll before me with all their deeds. — Ossian. 

Newstead! fast-falling, once - resplend i 



dome ! 



[pn 



Religion's shrine! repentant Hknf 



l'JO 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Of warriors, monks, and dames the cloister'd 
tomb, 
Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide. 

Hail to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall 
Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state ; 

Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall, 
Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. 

No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord, 
In grim array the crimson cross" 1 demand; 

Or gay assemble round the festive board 
Their chiefs retainers, an immortal band 

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye [time, 
Retrace their progress through the lapse of 

Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die, 
A votive pilgrim in Judea's clime. 

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the chief; 

His feudal realm in other regions lay . 
In thee the wounded conscience courts relief, 

Retiring from the garish blaze of day. 

Fes! in thy gloomy cells and shades profound 
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could 
view; 

Or blood-stain'd guilt repenting solace found, 
Or innocence from stern oppression flew. 

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise, 
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont 
to prowl ; 

And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes, 
Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl. 

Where now the grass exhales a murky dew, 
The humid pall of life-extinguish' d clay, 

In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew, 
Nor raised their pious voices but to pray. 

Where now the bats their wavering wings 
extend [shade, 

Soon as the gloaming 72 spreads her waning 
T/ie choir did oft their mingling vespers blend, 

Or matin orisons to Mary 73 paid. 

fears roll on years; to ages, ages yield ; 

Abbots to abbots, in aline, succeed: 
Religion's charter their protecting shield 

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed. 

>ne holy Henry rear'd the gothic walls, 
And bade the pious inmates rest in peace; 

Another Henry"* the kind gift recalls 
And bids de\otion's hallow'd echoes cease. 



Vain is each tureat or supplicating prayer ; 

He drives them exiles from their blest abode 
To roam a dreary world in deep despair — 

No friend, nohome,norefuge,but their God 

Hark how the hall, resounding to the strain, 
Shake's with the martial music's novel din 

The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign, 
High crested banners wave thy walls withii 

Of changing sentinels the distant hum. 

The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish't 
arms, 
The braying trumpet and the hoarser drum, 

Unite in concert with increased alarms. 

An abbey once, a regal fortress 75 now, 

Encircled by insulting rebel powers, [brow, 

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening 
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers. 

Ah vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege, 
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercotns* 
the brave ; 

His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege, 
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er nira wave 

Not unavenged the raging baron yields ; 

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain 
Uuconquer'd still, his falchion there he wields 

And days of glory yet for him remain. 

Still in that hour the warrior wished to strew 
Self-gather'd laurels on a self-sought grave , 

But Charles' protecting genius hither flew. 
The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope 
to save. 

Trembling, she snatch'd him 76 from th' un 
equal strife, 
In other fields the torrent to repel ; 
For nobler combats, here, reserv'd his life, 
To lead the band where godlike Fa l k i.an d 7 ' 
fell. 

From thee, poor pile ! to lawless plunder given.. 

While dying groans their painful requiems 
sound, 
Far different incense now ascends to heaven, 

Such victims wallow on the gory ground 

There many a pale and ruthless robber's corse. 

Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod ; 
O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with 
horse. 

Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1GJ 



Graves, long wim rank and sighing weeds 
o'erspread, [mould* 

fiansack'u, resign perforce their mortal 
From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, 

Ruk'-d from repose in search for huried gold. 

Hush'd it the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre, 

The rdnstrel's palsied hand reclines in 

death ; [tire, 

Mo more he strikes the quivering chords with 
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath. 

At length the sated murderers, gorged withprey, 
Retire ; the clamour of the light is o'er ; 

Silence again resumes her awful sway, 
And sahle Horror guards the massy door 

Here Desolation holds her dreary court: 
What satellites declare her dismal reign ' 

Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort. 
To tlit tht'r vigils in the hoary fane. 

Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel 
Ihe clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies; 

The fierce usurper seeks his native hell, 
And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies. 

With storms she welcomes his expiring groans; 

Whirlwinds, responsive, greet his labouring 
breath ; 
Earth shudders as hercaves receive his bones, 
Loathing 78 the offering of so dark a death. 

I'hc legal ruler" 9 now resumes the helm, 

He guides through gentle seas the prow of 

state; [realm, 

Hope cheers, with wonted smiles, the peaceful 

And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied 

hate. 



Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valk-vs shake 
What fears, what anxious h;>pes, attend tht 
chase ! 

The dying stag seeks refuge in the Lake -80 
Exulungshouts announce the umsu u race. 

Ah happy days! too happy to endure! [knew 
Such simple sports our plain foiefathen 

No splendid vices glitter'd to allure; [few 
Their joys were many, as their cares wert 

From these descending, sons to sires succeed; 

Time steals along, and Death uproars hi. 
dart ; 
Another chief impels the foaming steed, 

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. 

Newstead ! what saddening change of scene 
is thine! 

Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay! 
fhe last and youngest of a noble line 

Now hoi is thy mouldering turrets in his sway 

Deserted now, lie scans thy gray worn towers; 

Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep; 
Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers ; 

These, these he views, and views them but 
to weep. 

Yet are his tears no emblem of regret: 
Cherish'd affection only bids them flow. 

Pride, hope, and love forbid him to forget, 
But warm his bosom with impassion'* glow 

Yet he prefers thee to the gilded domes 
Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great; 

Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs, 
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of 
fate. 



The gloomy tenant,, Newstead! of thy cells, 
Howling, resign their violated nest; 

Again tbe master on his tenure dwells, 

Enjoy 'd, from absence, with enraptured zest. 

Vassals, within thy hospitable pale, 

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return; 

Culture again adorns the gladdening vale, 
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to 
mourn. 

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float, 
Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees ; 

And hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, 
The hunters' cry hangs lengthening on the 
breeze. 

12 



Haply thy sun, emerging, yet may shine, 
Thee to irradiate with meridian ray ; 

Hours splendid as the past may still be thine 
And bless thy future as thy former day. 



CHILDISH RECOLLECTIONS. 

" I cannot but remember such things were, 
And were most dear to me." 

Whkn slow Disease, with all her host of pains, 
Chills the warm tide which flows along the 

veins ; 
When Health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing 
Anil thes with every changing gale of spring 



J 



Ib2 



HOURS OF IDLENESS 



Not to the aching frame alone confined, 
Unyielding pangs assail the (hooping mind: 
What grisly forms, the spectre-train of woe, 
Bid shuddering Nature shrink beneath the blow, 
With Resignation wage relentless strife, 
While Hope retires appall'd, and clings to life, 
l'et less the pang when, through the tedious 

hour, 
Remembrance sheds around her gonial power 
Calls back the vanish'd days to rapture given, 
When love was hliss, and Beauty form'd our 

lie a v en ; 
Or, dear to youth, portrays each childish scene, 
Those fairy bowers, where all in turn have been. 
As when through clouds that pour the summer 

storm 
The orb of day unveils his distant form, 
Gilds with faint beams the crystal dews of rain, 
And dimly twinkles o'er the watery plain ; 
Thus, while the future dark and cheerless 

gleams, [dreams, 

The sun of memory, glowing through my 
Though sunk the radiance of his former blaze, 
To scenes far distant points his paler rays ; 
Still rules my senses with unbounded sway, 
''he past confounding with the present day. 

Oft does my heart indulge the rising thought, 
Which still recurs, unloo/c'd lor and unsought; 
My soul to Fancy's fond suggestion yields, 
And roams romantic o'er her airy fields : 
Scenes of my youth, developed, crowd to view, 
To which I long have bade a last adieu! 
Seats of delight, inspiring youthful themes; 
Friends lost to me for aye, except in dreams; 
Some who in marble prematurely sleep, 
Whose forms I now remember but to weep ; 
Some who yet urge the same scholastic course 
Of early science, future fame the source; 
Who, still contending in the studious race, 
In quick rotation fill the senior place. 
These with a thousand visions now unite, 
To dazzle, though they please, my aching sight, 
Ida ! blest spct, where Science holds her reign, 
How joyous once I join'd thy youthful train! 
Bright in idea gleams thy lofty spire, 
Again I mingle with thy playful quire; 
Our tricks of mischief, e^ery chiltt'sh game, 
Unchanged by time or diskmce, seemthe same; 
Through winding paths along the glade, I trace, 
The social smile of every welcome lace; 
My wonted haunts, my scenes of joy and woe. 
Fach early boyish friend, or youthiul foe, 
Our feuds dissolved, but not my friendship 

past: — 
I bless the former, and forgive the last. 



Hours of my youth! when, nurtured in nij 

breast, 
To love a stranger, friendship made me blest; — 
Friendship, the dear peculiar bond of youth, 
When every artless bosom throbs with truth ,„ 
Untaught by worldly wisdom h« ,- v to feign, 
And cheek each impulse with prudential rein , 
When all we feel, our honest souls disclose— 
In love to friends, in open hate to foes ; 
No varnish'd tales the lips of youth repeat, 
No dear-bought knowledge purchased h) 

deceit. 
Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years, 
Manned by age, tne garb of prudence wears. 
When now the boy is ripen'd into man, 
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan . 
Instructs his son from candour's path to shrink, 
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think; 
Still to assent, and never to deny — 
A patron's praise can well reward the lie: 
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is 

heard, 
Woidd lose his opening prospects for a word? 
Although against that word Ill's heart icbcl, 
And truth indignant all his bosom swell. 

Awav with themes like this! not mine the 
task 
From Mattering fiends to tear the hateful mask 
Let keener bards delight in satire's string; 
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing: 
Once, and but once, she aim'd a deadly blow 
To hurl defiance on a secret foe; 
But when that foe, from feeling or from shame. 
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same, 
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, re- 
tired, 
With this submission all her rage expired. 
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save, 
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave, 
Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew, 
Pomhosus' virtues are but known to few; 
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod, 
And he who wields must sometimes feel the 

rod. 
If since on Granta's failings, known to all 
Who share the converse of a college hall, 
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain, 
"1'is past, and thus she will not sin again, 
Soon must her early song for ever cease, 
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace. 

Here first remember'd be the joyous band, 
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command; 
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport — 
Their first adviser, and their last resort; 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



163 



ftor shrunk beneatn the upstart pedant's frown, 

• )r all the sable glories of his gown ; 

Who, thus transplanted from his father's 

school — 
Unfit to govern, ignorant of rule — 
Succeeded him, whom all unite to praise, 
The dear preceptor of my early days ; 
Probus 81 , the pride of science, and the boast, 
To Ida now, alas ! for ever lost. [page, 

With him, for years, we search'd the classic 
And fear'd the master, though we loved the 

sage : 
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat, 
From learning's labour is the blest retreat. 
Pomposus rills his magisterial chair; 
Pomposus governs, — but, my muse, forbear: 
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot; 
His name and precepts be alike forgot ! 
No more his mention shall my verse degrade, — 
To him my tribute is already paid. 

High, through those elms, with hoary 

branches crown'd, 
Fair Ida's bower adorns the landscape round; 
There Science, from her favour 'd seat, surveys 
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise; 
To her awhile resigns her youthful train, 
Who diove in joy, and dance along the plain; 
In icatter'd groups each favour'd haunt 

pursue ; 
R* peat old pastimes, and discover new ; 
Fush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun, 
lu rival bands, between the wickets run, 
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force, 
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course. 
But these with slower steps direct their way, 
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid currents 

stray ; [treat, 

While yonder few search out some green re- 
And arbours shade them from the summer heaf 
Others again, a pert and lively crew, [view, 
Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in 
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose, 
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes ; 
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray 
Tradition treasures for a future day : [fought, 
" T was here the gather'd swains for vengeance 
And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought ; 
Here have we ded before superior might, 
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous tight." 
While thus our souls with early passions swell 
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell ; 
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er, 
And Learning beckons from her temple's door. 
No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, 
But ruder records till the dusky wall ; 



There, deeply carved, behold: each tyro's nam; 
Secures its owner's academic :'amc ; 
Here mingling view the names of sire and sun 
The one long graved, the other just begun: 
These shall survive alike when son and sire 
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire i 8 '" 
Perhaps their last memorial these alone, 
Denied in death a monumental stone, 
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave 
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless 

grave. 
And here my name, and many an early friend's. 
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends. 
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race, 
Who tread our steps, and fill our formcrplace. 
Who 3'oung obey'd their lords in silent awe, 
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was 

law ; 
And now, in turn, possess the reins of power, 
To rule the little tyrants of an hour ; — 
Though sometimes, with the tales of ancient day. 
They pass the dreary winter's eve away — 
" And thus our forme" rulers stemm'd the tide, 
And thus th^y dealt the combat side by side 
Just in this place the mouldering walls they 

sealed, [avail'd;*= 

Nor bolts nor bars against their strength 
Here Pro bus came, the rising fray to quell, 
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell ; 
And here one night abroad they dared to roam, 
While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at 

home ;" — 
While thus they speak, the hour must soon 

arrive, 
When names of these, like ours, alone survive. 
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelm 
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm. 

Dear honest race ! though now we meet no 

more, 
One last long look on what we were before— 
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu — ■ 
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you. 
Through splen 'id circles, fashion's gaudy 

world, 
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfuiTd ; 
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret. 
And all I sought or hoped was to forget. 
Vain wish! if chance some well-rtmember'd 

face, 
Some old companion of my early race, 
Advanced to claim his friend with honest joy 
My eyes, my heart, proclaim'd me still a boy ; 
The glittering scene, the fluttering group* 

around, 
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found 
m2 



164 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The smiles of beauty — (for, alas! I "ve known 
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty 

throne) — [dear, 

The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were 
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was 

near : 
My thoughts bcwilder'd in the fond surprise, 
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes; 
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along, 
I saw andjoin'd again the joyous throng ; 
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove, 
And friendship's feelings triumph' d overlove. 8 * 

Yet. why should I alone with such delight, 
Retrace the circuit of my former flight ? 
Is there no cause beyond the common claim 
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name? 
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here, 
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear, 
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam, 
And seek abroad the love denied at home. 
Those hearts, dear Ida. have I found in thee — 
A home, a world, a paradise to me. 
Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share 
The tender guidance of a father's care. 
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply 
The love which glistens in a father's eye ? 
For this can wealth or title's sound atone, 
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own? 85 
What brother springs a brother's love to seek? 
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek? 
For me how dull the vacant moments rise, 
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties! 
Oft in the progress of some fleeting (beam 
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem; 
While still the visions to my heart are prest, 
The voice of love will murmur in my rest 
I hear — I wake — and in the sound rejoice 
1 hear again, — but ah' no brothers voice 
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray 
Alone though thousand pilgrims fill the way ; 
While these a thousand kindred wreaths en- 
twine, 
I cannot call one single blossom mine. 
What then remains? in solitude to groan, 
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone. 
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand, 
And none more dear than Ida's social band. 

Alonzo ! 86 best and dearest of my friends. 
Thy name ennobles him who thus commends : 
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise; 
The praise is his who now that tribute pays. 
Oh ! in the promise of thy early youth, 
If hope anticipate the words of truth, 
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, 
To build his own upon thy deathless fame. 



Friend of my heart, and foremost of ihe list 
Of those with whom I lived supremely blest 
Oft have we drain 'd the font of ancient lore; 
Though drinking deeply,thirstingstill themore 
Vet, when confinement's lingering hour wu* 

done, 
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were onr • 
Together we impell'd the flying ball ; 
Together waited in our tutor's ball ; 
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, 
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil ; 
Or, plunging from the green declining shore, 
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; 
In every element, unchanged, the same, 
All, all that brothers should be, but the name. 

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy ! 
Davus 87 , the harbinger of childish joy ; 
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, 
The laughing herald of the harmless pun ; 
Yet with a breast of such materials made — 
Anxious to please, ol pleasing half afraid ; 
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel 
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel 
Stdl I remember, in the factious strife, 
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: 8 ** 
High poised in air the massy weapon hung, 
A cry of horror burst from every tongue ; 
Whilst I, in combat with another foe, 
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow, 
Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career — 
Forward you sprung, insensible to tear ; 
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand 
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: 
An act like this, can simple thanks repay ? 
Or all the labours of a gratelul lay? 
Oh no ! whene'er my breast forgets the deed. 
That instant, Davus, it deserves u> bleed. 

Lycus ! 8 9 on me thy claims are justly great 
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate. 
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong 
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. 
Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, 
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit : 
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine 
Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. 
Where learning nurtures the superior mind, 
What may we hope from genius thus refined 
When time at length matures thy growing years 
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers 
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and tree, 
"With honour's soul, united beam in thee. 

Shall fair Euryaluk 90 pass by unsung? 
From ancient lineage, not unworthy sprung 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



1G5 



What though one sad dissension bade us part, 
That name is yet embalm' d within my heart ; 
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound, 
And palpitate, responsive to the sound. 
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will : 
We once were friends, — I '11 think we are so 

still. 
A form unmatch'd in nature s partial mould, 
A heart untainted, we in thee behold : 
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield, 
Nor seek for glory in the tented tield ; 
To minds of ruder texture these be given — 
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven. 
Haply, in polish'd courts might, be thy seat, 
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit: 
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile, 
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile, 
Would make that breast with indignation burn, 
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn. 
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate ; 
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate ; 
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore ; — 
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more. 

Now last, but nearest, of the social band, 
See honest, open, generous Clkon 91 stand; 
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing 

scene, 
No vice degrades that purest soul serene. 
On the same day our studious race begun, 
On the same day our studious race was run ; 
Tims side by side we pass'd our first career, 
Thus side by side we strove for many a year ; 
At last concluded our scholastic life, 
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife: 
As speakers- 2 each supports an equal name, 
And crowds al.ow to both a partial fume' 
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride, 
Though Cleon's candour would the palm d ride. 
Yet candour's self compels me now to own, 
Justice awards it to my friend alone 

Oh ! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, 
"Remembrance haik you with her wannest tear ! 
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, 
To trace the hours which never can return ; 
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, 
And soothe the sorrows other last farewell ! 
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, 
As infant laurels round my head were twined, 
When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, 93 
Or placed me higher in the studious throng ; 
Or when my first harangue received applause, 
His sage instruction the primeval cause, 
What gratitude to him my soul posset*'. 
While hope of dawning honour* till'd wy v— east! 



For alJ my humble fame, to hiv. irone 
The praise is due, who made that fame my own 
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays. 
These young effusions of my early days, 
To him my muse her noblest strain would give 
The song might perish, but the thememight live. 
Y'et why for him the needless verse essay? 
His honour' d name requires no vain display: 
By every sou of grateful Ida blest, 
It finds an echo in each youthful breast; 
A fame beyond the glories of the proud, 
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. 

Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme, 
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream 
How many a friend deserves the gratelul strain 
What scenesof childhood still unsung remain 1 
Yet let me hush this echo of the past, 
This parting song, the dearest and the last; 
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, 
To me a silent and a sweet employ, 
While future hope-and fear unlike unknown, 
I think with pleasure on the past alone; 
Y'es, to the past alone my heart confine, 
And chase the phantom of what once was mine 

Ida ! still o'er thy hills in joy preside, 
And proudly steer through time's event.ul tide; 
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere 
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;— 
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will llow 
O'er their last scene of happiness below. 
Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along, 
The feeble veterans of some former throng, 
Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests 

whirl'd, 
Are swept for ever from this busy world ; 
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth, 
While Care as yet withheld hervenom'd tooth, 
Say if remembrance days like these endears 
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years? 
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow 
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woel 
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son 
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won 
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys, 
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys) 
Recall one scene so much beloved to view, 
As those where Youth her garland twined lb! 

you? 
Ah, no ! amidst the gloomy calm of age 
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page; 
Peruse the record of your days on earth, 
Unsullied only where it marks your birth ; 
Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leal 
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief : 



166 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw, 
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu ; 
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn, 
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn ; 
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of 

truth, 
And Love, without his pinion 04 , smiled on 

youth. 



The mouldering marble lasts its day. 

Yet falls at length an useless nine , 
To ruin s ruthless fangs a prey, 

The wrecks of pillar'd pride remain 

What, though the sculpture be destroy'd, 
From dark oblivion meant to guard ; 

A bright renown shall be enjoy *d 

By those whose virtues claim reward. 



ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM, 
ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT. "93 

Montgomery ! true, the common lot 
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave ; 

Yet some shall never be forgot — 
Some shall exist bevond the grave. 



Then do not say the common lot 
Of all lies deep in Lethe's wave; 

Some few who ne'er will be forgot 
Shall burst the bondage of the grave 



180£ 



' Unknown the region of his birth," 
The hero 96 rolls the tide of war ; 

Yet not unknown his martial worth. 
Which glares a meteor from afar. 

His joy or grief, his weal or woe. 

Perchance may 'scav c th« page of fame ; 

Yet nations now unborn will know 
The record of his deathless name. 

The patriot's and the poet's frame 
Must share the common tomb of all : 

Their glory will not sleep the same ; 
Thai will arise, though empires fall. 

The lustre of a beauty's eye 

.Assumes the ghastly stare of death ; 

The fair, the brave, the good must die, 
And sink the yawning grave beneath. 

Once more the speaking eye revives, 

Still beaming through the lover's strain ; 

For Petrarch's Laura still survives : 
She died, hut ne'er will die again 

The rolling seasons pass away, 

And Time, untiring, waves his wing ; 

Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay, 
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring. 

A.11, all must sleep in grim repose, 

Collected in the silent tomb ; 
The old and young, with friends and foes, 

Festering alike in shrouds, consume. 



TO A LADY 

WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR WITH THE 
VELVET BAND WHICH HOUND HER TRESSES. 

This Band, which bound thy yellow hair, 
Is mine, sweet girl ! thy pledge of love ; 

It claims my wannest, dearest care, 
Like relies left of saints above. 

Oh ! I will wear it next my heart ; 

'T will bind my soul in bonds to thee: 
From me again 't will ne'er depart, 

But mingle in the grave with me. 

The dew I gather from thy lip 

Is not so dear to me as this ; 
That I but for a moment sip, 

And banquet on a transient bliss : 

This will recall each youthful scene, 
E'en when our lives are on the wane ; 

The leaves of Love will still be green 
When Memory bids them bud again. 

Oh ! little lock of golden hue, 

In gently waving ringlet curl'd, 
B'- the dear head on which you grew, 
would not lose you for a world. 

Not though a thousand more adcrn 

The polish "d brow where once you shone 

Like rays which gild a cloudless morn, 
Beneath Columbia's fervid zone. 

1&06. [First published, ie+2.1 



FIOURS OF IDLENESS. 



167 



REMEMBRANCE. 

T is done ! — I saw it in my dreams : 

No more with Hope the future beams ; 
My days of happiness are few ; 

Chill'd by misfortune's wintry blast, 

My dawn of life is overcast, 

Love, Hope, and Joy, alike adieu! — 
Would I could add Remembrance too ! 
1606. [First published, 1832.] 



LINES 

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. J. T # . BECIIER, ON 

HIS ADVISING THE AUTHOR TO MIX MORE 

WITH SOCIETY. 

Dear Becher, you tell me to mix with man- 
kind ; — 
I cannot deny such a precept is wise ; 
But retirement accords with the tone of my 
mind: 
I will not descend to a world I despise. 

Did the senate or camp my exertions require, 
Ambition might prompt me, at once, to go 
forth ; 
VThen infancy's years of probation expire, 
Perchance I may strive to distinguish my 
birth. 

The fire in the cavern of Etna conceal'd, 
Still mantles unseen in its secret recess ; — 

At length, in a volume terrific reveal' tl, 

No torrent can quench it, no bounds can 
repress/ ~ 



,97 



Oh! thus, the desire in my bosom for fame 

Bids me live but to hope for posterity's 

praise. [flame, 

Could I soar with the phoenix on pinions of 

With him I would wish u> expire in the 

blaze. 

For the life of a Fox, of a Chatham the death, 

Whatcensure, what danger, whatwoe would 

I brave ! [bieath ! 

Their lives did not end when they yielded their 

Their glory illumines the gloom of their 

grave. 

"et why should 1 mingle in Fashion's full herd? 
Way crouch to her leaders, or cringe to her 



Why bend to the proud, or appla: d the absurd? 
, Why search for delight in the friendship i»1 

fools ? 

I have tasted the sweets and the bitters o: 

love ; 

In friendship I early was taught to believe; 

My passion the matrons of prudence reprove ; 

I have found that a friend may profess, j et 

deceive. 

To me what is wealth? — it may pass in an 
hour, [frown , 

If tyrants prevail, or if Fortune should 
To me what is title ? — the phantom of power- 

To me what is fashion? — I seek but renown. 

Deceit is a stranger as yet to my soul ; 

I still am unpractised to varnish the truth : 
Then why should I live in a hateful control ? 

Why waste upon lolly the days of my vouth ? 

180*3. 



THE DEATH OF CALMAR AND 
ORLA. 

N IMITATION OF MACPHERSON's OSSIAN 9 * 

Dear are the days of youth ! Age dwells on 
their remembrance through the mist of time. 
In the twilight he recalls the sunny hours or 
morn. He lifts his spear with trembling 
hand. " Not thus feebly did I raise the steel 
before my fathers!" Past is the race ot 
heroes! But their fame rises on the harp; 
their souls ride on the wings of the wind . 
they hear the sound through the sighs of the 
storm, and rejoice in their hall of clouds' 
Such is Calmar. The gray stone marks his 
narrow house. He looks down from eddying 
tempests: he rolls his form in the whirlwind, 
and hovers on the blast of the mountain. 

In Morven dwelt the chief; a beam of wa 
to Fingal. His steps in the field were marked 
in blood. Lochlin's sons had fled before his 
angry spear ; but mild was the eye of Cab 
mar; soft was the flow of his yellow locks 
they streamed like the meteor of the. night 
No maid was the sigh of his soul: his thoughts 
were given to friendship, — to dark-haired 
Orla, destroyer of heroes! Equal were their 
swords in battle ; but fierce was the pride ot 
Orla: — gentle alone to Calmar. Together 
they dwelt in the cave of Oithona. 

From Lochlin, Swurau bounded o'er th? 



168 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



blue waves. Erin's sons fell beneath his 
might. Fingal roused his chiefs to combat. 
Their ships cover the ocean. Their host's 
throng on the green hills. They come to the 
aid of Erin. 

Night rose in clouds. Darkness veils the 
armies: but the blazing oaks gleam through 
the valley. The sons of Lochlin slept: their 
dreams were of blood. They lift ihe spear in 
thought, and Fingtl flies. Not so the host of 
Morven. To watch was the post of Orla. 
Calmar stood by his side. Their spears were 
in their hands. " Fingal called his chiefs: they 
stood around. The king was in the midst. 
Grey were his locks, but strong was the arm 
of the king. Age withered not his powers. 
>l Sons of Morven," said the hero, " to-mor- 
row we meet the foe. But where is Cuthul- 
lin, the shield of Erin ? He rests in the halls 
of Tura ; he knows not of our coming. Who 
will speed through Lochlin to the hero, and 
call the chief to arms ? The path is by the 
swords of» foes ; but many are my heroes. 
Thev are thunderbolts of war. Speak, ye 
chiefs! Who will aiise?" 

" Sons of Trenmor! mine be the deed," 
said dark-haired Orla, " and mine alone. 
What is death to me? I love the sleep of the 
mighty, but little is the danger. The sons of 
Lochlin dream. I will seek car-borne Culhul- 
lin. If I fall, raise the song of bards; and 
lay me by the stream of Lubar." — " And 
shalt thou fall alone?" said fair-haired Cal- 
mar. " Wilt thou leave thy friend afar? 
Chief of Oithona! not feeble is my arm in 
light. Could I see thee die, and not lift the 
spear? No, Orla! ours has been the chase of 
the roebuck, and the feast of shells ; ours be 
the path of danger: ours has been the cave of 
Oithona: ours be the narrow dwelling on the 
banks of Lubar." " Calmar," said the chief 
of Oithona, " why should thy yellow locks be 
arkened in the dust of Erin? Let me fall 
akne. My father dwells in his hall of air: 
he wilt rejoice in his boy ; but the blue-eyed 
Mora spreads the feast for her son in Morven. 
She listens to the steps of the hunter on the 
heath, and thinks it is the tread of Calmar. 
Let him not say, ' Calmar has fallen by the 
.steel of Lochlin : he died with gloomy Orla, 
the chief of the dark brow.' Why should tears 
dim the azure eye of Mora? Why should 
tier voice curse Orla, the destroyer of Calmar? 
Live, Calmar! Live to raise my stone of 
moss ; live to revenge me in the blood of 
Lochlin. Join the song of hards above my 



grave. Sweet will be the song of death D 
Orla, from the voice of Calmar. My ghos' 
shall smile on the notes of praise." " Orla,' 
said the son of Mora, " could I raise the song 
of death to my friend ? Could I give his fame 
to the winds? No, my heart would speak in 
sighs: faint and broken are the sounds o. 
sorrow. Orla ! our souls shall hear the song 
together. One cloud shall be ours on high, 
the bards will mingle the names of Orla and 
Calmar.' 1 

They quit the circle of the chiefs. Their 
steps are to the host of Lochlin. The dying 
blaze of oak dim twinkles through the night. 
The northern star points the path to Tura. 
Swaran, the king, rests on his lonely hill. 
Here the troops are mixed: they frown in 
sleep; their shields beneath their heads. 
Their swords gleam at distance in heaps. 
The fires are faint ; their embers fail in smoke. 
All is hush'd; but the gale sighs on the rocks 
above. Lightly wheel the heroes through the 
slumbering band. Half the journey is past, 
when Mathon, resting on his shield, meets 
the eye of Orla. It rolls in flame, and glis- 
tens through the shade. His spear is raised 
on high. " Why dost thou bend thy brow, 
chief of Oithona?" said fair-haired Calmar. 
" we are in the midst of foes. Is this a time 
for delay?" "It is a time for vengeance," 
saiil Orla of the gloomy brow. " Mathon ot 
•Lochlin sleeps: see'st thou his spear? Its 
point is dim with the gore of my father. The 
blood of Mathon shall reek on mine; but 
shall I slay him sleeping, son of Mora? No! 
he shall feel his wound : my fame shall not 
soar on the blood of slumber, Rise, Mathon, 
rise ! The son of Conna calls ; thy life is 
his ; rise to combat." Mathon starts from 
sleep; but did he rise alone? No: the ga- 
thering chiefs bound on the plain. " Fly ! 
Calmar, fly !" said dark-haired Orla. " Ma- 
thon is mine. I shall die in joy: but Loch- 
lin crowds around. Fly through the shade ot 
night.' Orla turns. The helm of Mathon is 
cleft; his shield falls from his arm: he shud- 
ders in his blood He rolls by the side of the 
blazing oak. Strumon sees him fall : his 
wrath rises: his weapon glitters on the head 
of Orla : but a spear pierced his eye. Hi* 
brain gushes through the wound, and foams 
on the spear of Calmar. As roll the waves oj 
the Ocean on two mighty barks of the north 
so pour the men of Loci in on the chiefs 
As, breaking the surge in foam, proudly steei 
the barks of the north, so rise the chiefs o. 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



160 



Morven on the scattered crests of Lochlin. 
The din of anus came to the ear of Fingal. 
He strikes his shield ; his sons throng around ; 
the people pour along the heath. Ryno 
hounds in joy. Ossian stalks in his arms. 
Oscar shakes the spear. The eagle wing of 
Fillan floats on the wind. Dreadful is the 
dang of death! many are the widows of 
Lochlin! Morven prevails in its strength. 

Morn glimmers on the hills: no living foe 
is seen ; hut the sleepers are many ; grim they 
lie on Erin. The breeze of ocean lifts their 
locks ; yet they do not awake. The hawks 
scream ahove their prey. 

Whose yellow locks wave o'er the hreast of 
a chief? Bright as the gold of the stranger, 
they mingle with the dark hair of his friend. 
Tis Calmar: he lies on 'he bosom of Orla. 
Theirs is one stream of blood. Fierce is the 
look of the gloomy Orla. lie breathes not ; 
but his eye is still a Hame. It glares in death 
unclosed. His hand is grasped in Calmar's; 
nut Calmar lives! he lives, though low. 
' Rise," said the king, " rise, son of Mora : 
'tis mine to heal the wounds of heroes. Cal- 
mar may yet bound on the hills of Morven." 

" Never more shall Calmar chase the deer 
of Morven with Orla," said the hero. " What 
were the chase to me alone? Who should 
share the spoils of battle with Calmar? Orla 
is at rest! Rough was thy soul, Orla! yet 
soft to me as the dew of morn. It glared on 
others in lightning: to me a silver beam of 
night. Bear my sword to blue-eyed Mora; 
let it hang in my empty hall. It is not pure 
from blood: but it could not save Orla. Lay 
me with my friend Raise the song when I 
am dark !" 

They are laid by the stream of Lobar. 
Four gray stones mark the dwelling of Orla 
and Calmar. When Swaran was bound, our 
sails rose on the blue waves. The winds 
gave our barks to Morven : — the bards raised 
the song. 

" What form rises on the roar of clouds ? 
Whose dark ghost gleams on the red streams 
of tempests? His voice rolls on the thunder. 
T is Orla, the brown chief of Oithona. He 
was unmatched in war. Peace to thy soul. 
Orla! thy fame will not perish. Nor thine, 
Calmar! Lovely wast thou, son of blue-eyed 
Mora ; but not harmless was thy sword. It 
hangs in thy cave. The ghosts of Lochlin 
shriek around its steel. Hear thy praise, 
Calmar! It dwells on the voice of the mighty. 
Thy name shakes on the echoes of Morven. 



Then raise thy fair locks, son of Mora. Spreac 
them on the arch of the rainbow ; and snub 
through the tears of the storm." 



L'AMITIE EST L'AMCUR SANSAILES 

Why should my anxious breast repine, 

Because my youth is fled ? 
Days of delight may still be mine ; 

Affection is not dead. 
In tracing back the years of youth, 
One linn record, one lasting truth 

Celestial consolation brings ; 
Bear it, ye breeze3, to the seat, 
Where first my heart responsive beat, — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

Through few, but deeply chequer'd years. 

What moments have been mine! 
Now half obscured by clouds of tears, 

Now bright in rays divine ; 
Howe'er my future doom be cast ; 
My soul, enraptured with the past, 

To one idea fondly clings ; 
Friendship! that thought is all thine own. 
Worth worlds of bliss, that thought alone — 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

Where yonder yew-trees lightly wave 

Their branches on the gale, 
Unheeded heaves a simple grave, 

Which tells the common tale; 
Round this unconscious schoolboys stray. 
Till the dull knell of childish play 

From yonder studious mansion rings; 
But here whene'er my footsteps move, 
My silent tears too plainly prove, 

" Friendship is love without his wings !' 

On Love ! before thy glowing shrine 

My early vows were paid ; 
My hopes, my dreams, my heart was thine, 

But these are now decay 'd ; 
For thine arc pinions like the wind, 
No trace of thee remains behind, 

Except, alas! thy jealous stings. 
Away, away: delusive power, 
Thou shalt not haunt my coming hour ; 

Unless, indeed, without thy wings. 

Seat of my youth '" thy distant spii? 

Recalls each scene of j«v : 
My bosom glows with former Art — 

In mind again a boy. 



170 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



Thy grove of elms, thy verdant hill, 
Thy every path delights me still, 

Each flower a double fragrance flings ; 
kgain, as once, in converse gay, 
Each dear associate seems to say, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

My LyeusJloo wherefore dost thou weep ? 

Thy falling tears restrain ; 
Affection for a time may sleep, 

But, oh, 'twill wake again.* 01 
Think, think, my friend, when next wemeet, 
Our long-wish 'd interview, how sweet! 

From this my hope of rapture springs ; 
While youthful hearts thus fondly swell, 
Absence, my friend, can only tell, 

"Friendship is Love without his wings !" 

It> one, and one alone deceived, 

Did I my error mourn ? 
No— -from oppressive bonds relieved, 

I left *.he wretch to scorn. 
I tnrn'fl to those my childhood knew, 
With feelings warm, with bosomu true, 

Twined with my heart's according strings: 
And till those vital chords shall break, 
For none but these my brea"t shall wake 

Friendship, the power deprhed of wings! 

Ye few ! my soul, my life \r yours, 

My memory and n.y hrpe : 
Your worth a lasting ! ove ensures, 

Unfetter' c 1 in its icope; 
Frcai smooth deceit and terror sprung, 
Witl" aspect fair and honey' d tongue, 

Let Adulation wait on kings ; 
With joy elate, by snares beset, 
ft'e, we, my friends, can ne'er forget, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings!' 

Mictions and dreams inspire the bard 

Who rolls the epic song : 
Friendship and Truth be my reward — 

To me no bays belong ; 
If laurell'd Fame but dwells with lies, 
Me the enchantress ever flies, 

Whose heart and not. whose fancy sings ; 
Simple and young, 1 dare not feign ; 
Mine be the rude yet heartfelt strain, 

" Friendship is Love without his wings !" 
[First published, 1832.] 



THE PRAYER OF NATURE. 

Father of Light ! great God of Heaven 
Hear'st thou the accents of despair? 

Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven ? 
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer? 

Father of Light, on thee I call ! 

Thou seest my soul is dark within : 
Thou who canst mark the sparrow's fall, 

Avert from me the death of sin. 

No shrine I seek, to sects unknown ; 

Oh point to me the path of truth ! 
Thy dread omnipotence I own ; 

Spare, yet amend, the faults of youth 

Let bigots rear a gloomy fane. 

Let superstition hail the pile, 
Let priests, to spread their sable reign, 

With tales of mystic rights beguile. 

Shall man confine his Maker's sway 
To Gothic domes of mouldering stone? 

Thy temple is the face of day ; 

Earth,ocean,heaven,thy boundless throne 

Shall man condemn his race to hell, 
Unless they bend in pompous form ? 

Tell us that all, for one who fell, 
Must perish in the mingling storm? 

Shall each pretend to reach the skies, 
Yet doom his brother to expire, 

Whose soul a different hope supplies, 
Or doctrines less severe inspire ? 

Shall these, by creeds they can't expound, 
Prepare a fancied bliss or woe? 

Shall reptiles, groveling on the ground, 
Their great Creator's purpose know ? 

Shall those who live for self alone, 

Whose years float on in daily crime — 

Shall they by Faith for guilt atone, 
And live beyond the bounds of Time ? 

Father ! no prophet'? aws I seek, — 
Thy laws in Natures works appear; — 

I own myself corrupt and weak, 
Yet w ill I pray, for thou wilt hear ' 

Thou who canst guide the wandering star 
Through trackless realms of settler's space 

Wh<> calm'st the elemental war, 

Whose hand from pole to pole I trace . — 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



171 



Thou, who in wisdom placed me here, 
Who, when thou wilt, can take me hence, 

Ah ! whilst I tread this earthly sphere, 
Extend to me thy wide defence. 

To Thee, my God, to Thee I call ! 

Whatever weal or woe betide, 
By thy command I rise or tall, 

It ihy protection I conride. 

If, when this dust to dust's restored, 
My soul shall float on airy wing, 

How shail thy glorious name adored 
Inspire her leeble voice to sing ! 

Bat, if this fleeting spirit share 
With clay the grave's eternal bed, 

While life yet throbs, I raise my prayer, 
Though doom'd no more to quit the dead. 

To Thee I breathe my humble strain, 

Grateful for all thy mercies past, 
Anil hope, my God, to thee again 
This erring life may fly at last. 

December 29, 1806. 
[First published, 1836.] 



TO EDWARD NOEL LONG, ESQ. 102 
Nil ego contulerim jocundo sanus amico. — Hoe. 

Df.au Long, in this sequester'd scene, 

While all around in slumber lie. 
The joyous days which ours have been 

Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eve: 
Thus if amidst the gathering str/.r."., 
While clouds the darken'd noon deform, 
V ;n heaven assumes a varied glow, 
I hail the sky's celestial bow, 
Which spreads the sign of future peace, 
And bids the war of tempests cease. 
Ah ! though the present brings but pain, 
I think those days may come again ; 
Or if, in melancholy mood, 
•Some lurking envious fear intrude, 
To check my bosom's fondest thought, 

And interrupt the golden dream, 
I crush the fiend with malice fraught, 

And still indulge my wonted theme. 
Although we ne'er again can trace, 

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore ; 
Nor through the groves of Ida cnase, 

Our raptured visions as before, 



Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, 
And Manhood claims his stern dominion- 
Age will not every hope destroy, 
But yield some hours of sober joy. 

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing 
Will shed around some dews of spring: 
But if his scythe must sweep the flowers 
Which bloom among the fairy bowers, 
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell. 
And hearts with early rapture swell j 
If frowning Age, with cold control, 
Confines the current of the soul, 
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye, 
Or checks the sympathetic sigh, 
Or hears unmoved misfortune's groan, 
And bids me feel for self alone ; 
Oh may my bosom never learn 

To soothe its wonted heedless flow ; 
Still, still despise the censor stern, 

But ne'er forget another's woe. 
Yes, as you knew me in the days 
O'er which Remembrance yet delays, 
Stih may I rove, untutor'd, wild, 
And even in age at heart a child. 

Though now on airy visions borne, 

To you my sold is still the same. 
Oft has it been my fate to mourn. 

And all my former joys are tame. 
But, hence ! ye hours of sable hue ! 

Your frowns are gone, my sorrows o'er 
By every bliss my childhood knew, 

I '11 think upon your shade no more. 
Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, 

And caves their sullen roar enclose, 
We heed no more the wintry blast, 

Wuen lull'd by zephyr to repose. 

Full often has my infant Muse 

Attuned to love her languid lyre ; 
But now without a theme to choose, 

The strains in stolen sighs expire. 
My youthful nymphs, alas ! are flown; 

E is a wife, and C a mother, 

And Carolina sighs alone, 

And Mary 's given to another ; 
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me. 

Can now no more my love recall : 
In truth, dear Long, 't was time to flee ; 

For Cora's eye will shine on all. 
And though the sim, with genial r&ys, 
His beams alike to all displays. 
Am every lady's eye's a sun. 
These last should be confined to on* 



L72 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



The soul's meridian don t become her, 
Whose sun displays a general summer 
Thus taint is every former flame, 
And passion's self is now a name. 
As when the ebbing flames are low, 

The aid which once improved their light. 
And bade them burn with fiercer glow, 

Now quenches all their sparks in night ; 
Thus has it been Avith passion's fires, 

As many a boy and girl remembers, 
While all the force of love expires, 

E xtinguish'd with the dying embers. 

But now, dear Long, 'tis midnight's noon, 
And clouds obscure the watery moon, 
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse, 
Described in every stripling's verse; 
For why should I the path go o'er, 
Which every bard has trod before? 
Yet ere yon silver lamp of night 

Has thrice perfonn'd her stated round. 
Has thrice retraced her path of light, 

And chased away the gloom profound, 
I trust that we, my gentle friend, 
Shall see her rolling orbit wend 
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat 
Which once contain'd our youth's retreat ; 
And then with those our childhood knew, 
We '11 mingle in the festive crew ; 
While many a tale of former day 
Shall wing the laughing hours away ; 
And all the flow of souls shall pour 
The sacred intellectual shower, 
Nor cease till Luna's waning horn 
Scarce glimmers through the mist of mora. 



TO A LADY. 103 



Perhaps his peace I could destroy, 
And spoil the blisses that await him ; 

Yet let my rival smile in joy, 

For thy dear sake I cannot hate him. 

Ah ! since thy angei form is gone, 

My heart no more can rest with any ; 

But what it sought in thee alone, 
Attempts, alas ! to find in many. 

Then fare thee well, deceitful maid ! 

'T were vain and fruitless to regret thee; 
Nor Flope, nor Memory yield their aid, 

But Pride may teach me to forget thee. 

Yet all this giddy waste of years, 

This tiresome round of palling pleasures : 

These varied loves, these matron's fears, 
These thoughtless strains to passion's 
measures — 

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd : — 
This cheek now pale from early riot, 

With passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd, 
But bloom 'd in calm domestic quiet. 

Yes, once the rural scene was sweet, 
For Nature seem'd to smile be ore thee ; 

And once my breast abhorr'd deceit, — 
For then it beat but to adore thee. 

But now I seek for other joys: 

To think would drive my soul to madness 
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise, 

1 conquer half my bosom's sadness. 

Yet, even in these a thought will steal, 
In spite of every vain endeavour, — 

And fiends might pity what I feel, — 
To know that thou art lost for ever 



Oh ! had my fate been join'd with thine, 
As onee this pledge appear'd a token. 

These follies nad not then been mine, 
For then my peace had not been broken. 

To thee these early faults I owe, 

To thee, the wise and old reproving : 

They know my sins, but do not know 

'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. 

For once my soul, like thine, was pure, 
And all its rising tires could smother ; 

But now thy vows no more endure, 
Bestow'd by tl ee upon another. 



: WOULD I WERE A CARELESS 
CHILD. 

I woui.r> I were a careless child, 

Still dwelling in my Highland cave, 
Or roaming through the dusky wild, 

Or bounding o'er the dark blue wave ; 
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon 104 pride 

Accords not with the freeborn soul, 
W r hich loves the mountain's craggy side, 

And seeks the rocks where billows roll 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



173 



Fortune ! take back these cultured lands, 

Take hack this name of splendid sound ! 
I hate the touch of servile hands, 

I hate the slaves that cringe around. 
Place me along the rocks I love, 

Which sound to Ocean's wildest roar; 
I ask but this — again to rove 

Through scenes my youth hath known 
before. 

Few are my years, and yet I feel 

The world was ne'er design 'd for me 
Ah ! why do dark'ning shades conceal 

The hour when man must cease to be ? 
Once 1 beheld a splendid dream. 

A visionary scene of bliss: 
Truth '. — wherelore did thy hated beam 

Awake me to a world like this ? 

I loved — but those I loved are gone ; 

Had friends — my early friends are fled: 
How cheerless feels the heart alone 

When all its former hopes are dead ! 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure stirs the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart — is lonely still. 

How dull ! to hear the voice of those 

Whom rank or chance, whom wealth or 
power, 
Have made, though neither friends nor foes 

Associates of the festive hour. 
Give me again a faithful few, 

In years and feelings still the same, 
And I will fly the midnight crew, 

Where boist'rous joy is but a name. 

And woman, lovely woman ! thou, 

My hope, my comforter, my all ! 
How cold must be my bosom now, 

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall! 
Without a sigh would I resign 

This busy scene of splendid woe, 
To make that calm contentment mine, 

Which virtue knows, or seems to know. 

Fain would I fly the haunts of men — 

I seek to shun, not hate mankind; 
My breast requires the sullen glen, 

Whose gloom may suit a darken'd mind. 
Oh ! that to me the wings were given 

Which bear the turtle to her nest! 
Then would I cleave the vault, of heaven, 

To flee away, and be at rest. 105 



W T HEN I ROVED A YOUNG HIGH 
LANDER. 

When I roved a young Highbinder o'er the 
dark heath, [snow! '06 

And climb'd thy steep summit, oh Morven of 
To gaze on the torrent that thunder'd beneath, 
Or the mist of the tempest that gatber'd 
below,l07 
Untutor'd by science, a stranger to fear, 
And rude as the rocks where my infancy 
grew, 
No feeling, save one, to my bosom was dear ; 
Need I say, my sweet Mary, 'twas center' d 
in you? lo8 

Yet ll could not be love, for I knew not the 
name, — 
What passion can dwell in the heart of a 
child ? 
Rut still I perceive an emotion the same 
As I felt, when a boy, on the crag-cover'd 
wild . 
One image alone on my bosom impress'd, 

I loved my bleak legions, nor panted for new. 
And lew were my wants, for my wishes were 
bless'd ; 
And pure were my thoughts, for my soul 
was with you 

I arose with the dawn : with mv dog as my 
guide, [along; 

From mountain to mountain I bounded 
I breasted the billows of Dee's rushing tide, 
And heard at a distance the Highlands's 
song : 
At eve, on my heath-cover'd couch of repose. 
No dreams, save of Mary, were ?pre jf .3 
my view ; 
And warm to the skies my devv.„io.iS arose. 
For the first of my prayers was a blessing 
on vou. 



I left my bleak home, and my visions are gone , 
The moujtains --ire vanish'd, my youth is no 
more; 
As the last of my race, T must wither alone, 
And delight but in days I have witnessed 
before: []ot . 

Ah ! splendour has raised, but embitter'd, my 
More dear were the scenes which my in- 
fancy knew : 
Though my hopes may have fail'd, yet the? 
are not forgot ; [xmi 

Though cold is my heart, still it lingers with 



174 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



When I see some ciark hill point its crest to 

the sky, [bleen ;"» 

I think of the rocks that o'ershadow Col- 

When 1 see the sol t bluo of a love-speaking eye, 

I think of those eyes that endear 'd the rude 

scene ; 

When haply, some light-waving locks I behold, 

That faintly resemble my Mary's in hue, 
I think on the long flowing ringlets of gold, 
The locks that were sacred to beauty, and 
you. 

\ et the day may arrive when the mountains 
once more [snow : 

Shall rise to my sight in their mantles of 
but while these soar above me, unchanged as 
before, 
Will Mary be there to receive me! — ah, no! 
Adieu, then," ye hills, where my childhood was 
bred ! 
Thou sweet flowingPee, to thy waters adieu ! 
No home in the forest shall shelter my head, — 
Ah! Mary, what home could be mine but 
with von? 



However, dear George, for I still must c.stcca 

you — 

The few whom I love I can never upb'<oid — 

The chance which has lost may in future re 

deem you, [made 

Repentance will cancel the vow you have 

I will not complain, and though chill'd is affec 

tion, 

With me no corroding resentment shall live 

My bosom is calm'd by the simple* reflection. 

That both may be wrong, ana that both 

should forgive. 

You knew that my soul, that my heart„ my 
existence, 

If danger demanded, were wholly your own , 
You knew meunalter'd by years or by distance. 

Devoted to love and to friendship alone. 

You knew, — but away with the vain retro- 
spection ! 
The bond of affection no longer endures ; 
Too late you may droop o'er the fond recol 
lection, [yours 

And sigh for the friend who was formerly 



TO GEORGE, EARL DELAWARR. For the present, we part, — I will hope not fo? 



Oil ! yes, I will own we were dear to each 

"other; [are true; 

The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, 

Tue love which you felt was the love of a 

brother, 

Nor less the affection I cherish'd for you. 

I3ut Friendship can vary her gentle dominion; 
The attachment of years in a moment ex- 
pires: [pinion, 
L:kc Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving 
But glows not, like Love, with unquench- 
able fires. 

Pull oft have we wander'd through Ida together, 

jxiul blest were the scenes of our youth, I 

allow: [weather! 

in the spring of our life, how serene is the 

Jut winter's rude tempests are gathering 

now. 

N > more with affection shall memory blending, 

The wonted delights of our childhood re- 

trace: [bending, 

When pride steels the bosom, the heart is un- 

And what would be justice appears a dis 

grace. 



For time and regret will restore you al 1 ist 
To forget our dissension we both should en 
deavour, 
I ask no atonement, but days like the pas* 



TO THE EARL OF CLARE. 

" Tu semper amoris 
Sis memcr, et cari comitis ne abscedat imago." 
Val Flac. 

Fb i E n n of my youth ! when young we rovefl 
Like striplings, mutually beloved, 

With friendship's purest glow, 
The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours 
Was such as pleasure seldom showers 

On mortals here below. 

The recollection seems alone 
Dearer than all the joys ] 've known, 

When distant far from you • 
Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain. 
To trace those days and hours agaia, 

And sigh again, adieu ! 



HOURS OF IDLENESS. 



175 



My pensive memory lingers o'er 
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more, 

Those scenes regretted ever : 
The measure of our youth is full, 
Life's evening dream is dark and dull, 

And we may meet— ah ! never ! 

As when one parent spring supplies 
Two streams which from one fountain rise, 

Together join'd in vain ; 
How soon, diverging from their source, 
Each, murmuring, seeks another course, 

Till mingled in the main ! 

Our vital streams of weal or woe, 
Though near, alas ! distinctly flow, 

Nor mingle as before : 
Now swift or slow, now black or clear, 
Till death's unfathom'd gulf appear, 

And hoth shall quit the shore. 

Our souls, my friend ! which once supplied 
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside, 

Now flow in different channels : 
Disdaining humbler rural sports, 
'Tis yours to mix in polish , d courts, 

And shine in fashion's annals : 

'Tis mine to waste on love my time, 
Or vent my reveries in rhyme, 

Without the aid of reason ; 
For sense and reason (critics know it) 
Have quitted every amorous poet, 

Nor left a thought to seize on. 

Poor Little ! sweet, melodious bard ! 
Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, 

That he, who sang before all, — 
He who the lore of love expanded,— 
By dire reviewers should be branded, 

As void of wit and moral. 1 10 

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, 
Harmonious favorite of the Nine ! 

Repine not at thy lot. 
Thy soothing lavs may still be read, 
When Persecution's arm is dead, 

And critics are forgot. 

Still I must yield those worthies merit, 
Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, 

Bad rhymes, and those who write them; 
And though myself may be the next, 
By critic sarcasm to be vext, 

I really will not fight them. 111 



Perhaps they would do quite as well 
To break the rudely sounding shell 

Of such a young beginner ; 
He who offends at pert nineteen, 
Ere thirty may become, I ween, 

A very harden'd sinner. 

Now Clare, I must return to you ; 
And, sure, apologies are due : 

Accept, then, my concession 
In truth, dear Clare, in fancy's flight 
I soar along from left to right ; 

My muse admires digression. 

I think I said 'twould be your fate 
To add one star to royal state :— 

May regal smiles attend you ! 
And should a noble monarch reign, 
You will not seek his smiles in vain, 

If worth can recommend you. 

Yet since in danger courts abound, 
Where specious rivals glitter round, 

From snares may saints preserve you ? 
And grant your love or friendship ne'er 
From any claim a kindred care, 

But those who best deserve you. 

Not for a moment may you stray 
From truth's secure, unerring way ! 

May no delights decoy ! 
O'er roses may your footsteps move, 
Your smiles be ever smiles of love, 

Your tears be tears of joy ! 

Oh ! if you wish that happiness 

Your coming days and years may bless, 

And virtues crown your brow : 
Be still as you were wont to be, 
Spotless as you've been known to me, — 

Be still as you are now. 

And though some trifling share of praise, 
To cheer my last declining days, 

To me were doubly dear, 
Whilst blessing your beloved name 
I'd waive at once a poet's fame, 

Tc prove a prophet here. 



176 



HOUKS OF IDLENESS. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM 
IN THE CHURCHYARD OF 
• HARROW."* 

SroT of my youth! whose hoary brandies 
sigh, [sky ; 

Swept by the breeze that fans thv cloudless 
Where now .alone I muse, who oft have trod, 
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod; 
Wuh those who, scatter'd far, perchance de- 
plore. 
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before: 
Oh ! as I trace again thy winding hill, 
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still, 
thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs 

I lay, 
And frequent mused the twilight hours away; 
Where, a* they once were wont, my limbs 
recline, [were mine: 

But, ah! without the thoughts which then 
How dc thy brandies, moaning to the blast, 
Invite the bosom to recall the past, 
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell, 
• like, while thou canst, a lingering, last 
(krewtil'" 



When fate shall ehui.at length, ibis fever'd 

breast, 
And calm its cares and passions into rest. 
Oft have I thought, 'twould soothe my dying 

Lour, — [power, — ■ 

If aught may soothe when life resigns her 
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell, 
Would hide my bosom where it loved to dwell; 
With this fond dream, methinks, 'twere sweet 

to die — 
And here it linger'd, here my heart might lit; 
Here might I s'ieep where ail my hopes arose; 
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose ; 
For ever stretch'd beneath this mantling shade, 
Press'd by the turf where once my childhood 

play'd; 
Wrapt, by the soil that veils the spot I loved, 
Mix'd wuh the earth o'er which my footsteps 

moved; [ful ear, 

Blest by the tongues that charm'd my youth- 
Mouni'd by the few my soul acknowledged 

here ; 
Deplored by those in early days allied, 
And uuremember'd by the world beside 

oepteiulicr i, 1M)7< 



€njjltsj) Partis anti ^totclj Krinetoers 



A SATIRE. 



" I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew ! 
Than one of these same metre ballad-mongers." — 3hakspeabk# 

*' Such shameless bards we have ; and yet 'tis true, 
There are as mad, abandon'd critics too." — Pope. 



PREFACE. 

All my friends, learned and unlearned, have 
urged me not to publish this Satire with my 
name. If I were to be " turned from the 
career of my humour by quibbles quick, and 
paper bullets of the brain," I should have 
complied with their counsel. But I am not 
tn be terrified by abuse, or bullied by re- 
viewers, with or without arms. I can safeiy 
say tnat I have attacked none personally, who 
tud not commence on the offensive* An au- 
dior's works-are public property : he who pur- 
chases may judge, and publish his opinion if 
ae please's ; and the authors I have endea- 
voured to commemorate may do k v me as I 
iave done by them. I dare say they will sue 
«eed better in condemning my scribblings, 
iian in mending their own. But my object 
* not to prove that I can write well, but, if 
»ossible, to make others write better. 

As the poem has met with far more success 
ihan I expected, I have endeavoured in this 
edition to make some additions and altera 
tions, to render it more worthy of public 
perusal. 

In the first edition of this satire, published 
anonymously, fourteen lines on the subject of 
Bowles's Pope were written by, and inserted 
at the request of, an ingenious friend of mine, 1 
who has now in the press a volume of poetry. 
In the present edition they are erased, and 
some of my own substituted in their stead ; 
my only reason for this being that which I 
conceive would operate with any other person 
in the same manner, — a determination not to 
oublisb with my namj any production, which 

13 



was not entirely and exclusively my owl 
composition. 

With regard to the real talents of many o- 
the poetical persons whose performances are 
mentioned or alluded to in the following pages, 
it is presumed by the author that there can l*j 
little difference of opinion in the public at 
large ; though, like other sectaries, each has 
Ins separate tabernacle of proselytes, by whom 
his abilit.es are over-rated, his faults overlooked, 
and his metrical canons received without scru- 
ple and without consideration. But the un- 
questionable possession of considerable genius 
by several of the writers here censured renders 
their mental prostitution more to be regretted. 
Imbecility maybe pitied, or, at worst, laughed 
at and forgotten ; perverted powe.s demaad 
the most decided reprehension. No one can 
wish more than the author that some known 
and able writer had undertaken their exposure; 
but Mr. Gifford has devoted himself to Mas 
singer, and, in the absence of the regular pin 
sician, a country practitioner may, in cases of 
absolute necessity, be allowed to prescribe his 
nostrum to prevent the extension of so de- 
plorable an epidemic, provided there be nc 
quackery in his treatment of the malady. A 
caustic is here offered ; as it is to be feared 
nothing short of actual cautery can recover 
the numerous patients afflicted with the pre- 
sent prevalent and distressing rabies for rhym- 
ing. — As to the Edinburgh Reviewers, it would 
indeed require an Hercules to crush the Hydra , 
but if the author succeeds in merely " bruising 
one of the heads of the serpent," though his 
own hand should sutler in the encounter, he 
will be amply satisfied. 



178 



ENGLISH BARDS AND 



ttnqltsl) 33arta, etc. 



St: li. must. J hear? 2 — shall hoarse Fitzgerald 3 

bawl 
Hi.-> creaking couplets in a tavern hall,-* 
\m\ I not sing, lest haply, Scotch reviews 
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my 

muse ? 
Prepare for rhyme — I 'Upublish,rightorwrong: 
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. 

Oh! nature's noblest gift — rav gray goose- 
quill ! 
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, 
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, 
That mighty instrument of little men ! 
The pen ! foredoom' d to aid the mental throes 
Of brains that labour, big with verse or prose. 
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, 
The lover's solace, and the author's pride-' 
What wits ! what poets dost thou daily raise ! 
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! 
Condemn'd at length to be forgotten quite, 
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write. 
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen ! 
Once laid aside, but now assumed again, 
Our task complete, like Hamet's 5 shall be free; 
Though spurn'd by others, yet beloved by me: 
Tl.cn let us soar to-day; no common theme, 
No eastern vision, no distemper'd dream 
Inspires — our path, though full of thorns, is 

plain ; 
Smooth be the verse, and easy ha the strain. 

When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign 
sway, 

Obey'd by all who nought beside obey ; 
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, 
Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime ; 
When knaves and fools combined o'er all pre 

vail, 
And weigh their justice in a golden scale ; 
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers 
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, 
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, 
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. 

Such is the force of wit! but not belong 
To me the arrows of satiric song; 
The royal vices of our age demand 
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. 
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, 
And yield at least amusement in the race: 



Laugh when I laugh, I seek nc other fame; 
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. 
Speed, Pegasus ! — ye strains of great and small, 
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all! 
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time 
I pour'd along the town a flood of rhyme, 
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame, 
I printed — older children do the same 
T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print) 
A book 's a book, although there s nothing in i, 
Not that a title's sounding charm can save 
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave: 
This Lambe must own, since his patrician nam* 
Fail'd to preserve the spurious farce from shame 
No matter, George continues still to write, 
Though now the name is veil'd from publio 

sight. 
Moved by the great example, I pursue 
The self-same road, but make my own review: 
Not seek great Jeffrey's, yet like him, will be 
Self-constituted judge of poesy. 

A man must serve his time to ev'ry trade 
Save censure — critics all are ready made. 
Take hackney 'd jokes from Miller, got by rote. 
With just enough of learning to misquote; 
A mind well skill'd to find or forge a fault, 
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt; 
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet, 
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet 
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a sharper hit; 
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit, 
Care not for feeling — pass your proper jest» 
And stand a critic, hated yet caress'd. 

And shall we own such judgment? no — as 
soon 
Seek roses in December — ice in June; 
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chafT, 
Believe a woman or an epitaph, 
Or any other thing that's false, before 
You trust in critics, who themselves are sore: 
Or yield one single thought to be misled 
By Jeffrey's heart, or Lambe 's Boeotian head. 
To these young tyrants 6 , by themselves mis- 
placed, 
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste; 
To these, when authors bend in humble awe, 
And hail their voice as truth, their word as 

law — 
While these are censors, 't wouldbe sin to spare ; 
While such are critics, why should 1 forbear? 
But yet, so near all modern worthies run, 
T is doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun 
Nor know we when to spare, fir where to strike 
Our bards and censors are so much alike. 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



179 



Then should you ask mr', why I venture o'er 
1'he path which Pope and Gilford trod before; 
If not yet sicken'd, you can still proceed: 
Go on ; my rhyme will tell you as you read. 
' B xi hold!" exclaims a friend, — " here 'a some 

neglect: 
This — that — and t'other line seem incorrect." 
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got, 
And careless Dryden— " Ay, but Pye has 

not:" — 
Indeed ! — 'tis granted, faith ! — but what care I ? 
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye. 

Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days 
Ignoble themes obtain'd mistaken praise, 
When sense and wit with poesy allied, 
No fabled graces, flourish'd side by side ; 
From the same fount, their inspiration drew, 
And rear'd by taste, bloom'd fairer as they grew. 
Then, in this happy isle, a Pope's 8 pure strain 
Sought the rapt soid to charm, nor sought in 

vain; 
A polish'd nation's praise aspired to claim, 
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame. 
Like him great Dryden pour'd the tide of song, 
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly 

strong. [ xiiek — 

Then Congreve's scenes could cheer, or Ot way's 
For nature then an English audience felt. 
But why these names, or greater still, retrace, 
When all to feebler bards resign their place? 
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast, 
When taste and reason with those times are past. 
Now look around, and turn each trifling page, 
Survey the precious works that please the age ; 
This truth at least let satire's self allow, 
No dearth of bards can be complain'd of now. 
The loaded press beneath her labour groans, 
And printer's devils shake their weary bones; 
While Southey's epics cram the creaking 

shelves. 
AndLittle's lyrics shinem hot-pressed twelves. 
Thus saith the preacher* " Nought beneath 

the sun 
Is new ;" yet still from change to change we 

run : 
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass ! 
The cow-pox, tractors, galvanism, and gas, 
In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, 
Till the swoln bubble bursts — and all is air! 
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, 
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize : 
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail ; 
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal, 
And, hurling lawful genius from the throne, 
Em«t«i ii shrine and idol of its own : 



Some leaden calf— hut whom it matters not. 
From soaring Southey down to grovellinn 
Stott.9 



Behold! in 



various throngs the scribbling 



For notice eager, pass in long review: 
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, 
And rhyme and blank maintain an equal race 
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; 
And tales of terror jostle on the road ; 
Immeasurable measures move along ; 
For simpering folly loves a varied song. 
To strange mysterious dulness still the friend 
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend. 
Thus Lays of Minstrels — may they be tht 

last!— ' 

On half-strung harps whine mournful to tht 

blast. 
"While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, 
That dames may listen to the sound at nights 
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's brood. 
Pecoy young border-nobles through the 

wood, 
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, 
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows 

why ; 
"While high-born ladies in their magic cell, 
Forbidding knights to read who cannot 

spell, 
Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, 
And right with honest men to shield a knave. 

Next view in state, proud prancing on hi* 

roan, 
The golden-crested haughty Marmion, 
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the figh,'. 
Not quite a felon, yet but half a knight. 
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace ; 
A mighty mixture of the great and base. 
And think'st thou, Scott! 1 ** by vain con en 

perchance, 
On public taste to foist thy stale romance, 
Though Murray with his Miller may combine 
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown pel 

line? 
No! when tne sons of song descend to trade, 
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade 
Let such forego the poet's sacred name, 
Who rack their brains for lucre. 1 ' not for fame 
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain. 
And sadly gaze on gold they cannot gain! 
Such be their meed, such still the just reward 
Of prostituted muse and hireling bard! 
For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, 
And bid n lon<r " srnori mVht to Mam-ion 



J.80 



ENGLISH BARDS AND 



These are the themes that claim our plau- 
dits now ; [bow ; 
These are the bards to whom the muse must 
While Milton, Dryden.Pope, alike forgot, 
Resign their hallow'd bays to Walter Scott. 

The time has been, when yet the muse was 

young, 
When Homer swept the lyre, and Maro sung, 
An tpic scarce ten centuries could claim, 
While awe-struck nations hail'd the magic 

name ; 
The work of each immortal bard appears 
The single wonder of a thousand years. 
Empires have moulder'd from the face of earth, 
f ongues have expired svith those who gave 

them birth, 
Without the glory such a strain can give, 
As even in ruin bids the language live. 
Not so with us, though minor bards content, 
On one great work a life of labour spent: 
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, 
behold the ballad-monger Southey rise ! 
to him let Camoens, Milton, Tasso yield, 
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field. 

First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, 
The scourge of England and the boast of 

France ! 
Though burnt by wicked Bedford for a witch, 
Behold her statue placed in glory's niche ; 
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, 
A virgin phoenix from her ashes risen. 
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, 1 * 
Arabia's monstrous, wild, andwond'rous son; 
Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew 
More mad magicians than the world e'er knew. 
Immortal hero! all thy foes o'ercome, 
For ever reign — the rival of Tom Thumb! 
Since startled metre fled before thy face, • 
Well well thou doom'd the last of all thy race! 
Well might triumphant genii bear thee hence, 
Illustrious conqueror of common sense! 
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, 
Cacique in Mexico, and prince in Wales ; 
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, 
More old than Mandeville's, and not so true 
Oh, Southey! Southey! 13 cease thy varied 

song! 
A bard may chant too often and too long . 
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare ! 
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear. 
But if, in spite of all the world can say, 
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way ; 
If still in Berkley ballads most uncivil, 
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, H 



The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue : 
" God help thee," Southey, 15 and thj 
readers too. 

Next comes the dull disciple of thy sehoo',. 
That mild apostate from poetic rule, 
The simple Wordsworth, framer of a lay 
As soft as evening in his favourite May, 
Who warns his friend " to shake oft' toil and 

trouble, 
And quit, his books, for fear of growing double ; 
Who, both by precept and example, shows 
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose 
Convincing all, by demonstration plain, 
Poetic souls delight in prose insane ; 
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme 
Contain tne essence of the true sublime. 
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy. 
The idiot motner of " an idiot boy ;" 
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way 
And, like his bard, confounded night with 

day ; 18 
So close on each pathetic part he dwells, 
And each adventure so sublimely tells, 
That all who view the "idiot in his glory,'' 
Conceive the bard the hero of the story. 

Shall gentle Coleridge pass unnoticed here. 
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear? 
Though '.hemes of innocence amuse him best 
Vet still obscurity 's a welcome guest. 
If Inspiration should her aid refuse 
To him wno takes a pixy for a muse," 
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass 
The bard who soars to elegise an ass. 
So well the subject suits his noble mind, 
He brays 18 , the laureat of the long-ear'd kind. 

Oh! wonder-working Lewis! 19 monk, or 
bard, 

Who fain wouldst make Parnassus a church- 
yard ! 

Lo ! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, 

Thy muse a sprite, Apollo's sexton thou! 

Whether on ancient tombs thoutak'st thy stand 

By gibb'ring spectres hail'd, thy kindred band; 

Or traces! chaste descriptions on thy page, 

To please the females of our modest age ; 

All hail, M.P. !'-° from whose infernal brain 

Thin sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train ; 

At whose command " grim women" throng 
in crowds, 

And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds. 

With " small gray men," " wild yagers," 
and what not, 

To crown with honour thee and Walter Scott; 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



381 



Again all hail! if tales like thine may piease, 
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease : 
Kven Satan's sell' with thee might (head to 

dwell, 
And in thy skull discern a deeper hell. 

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir, 
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's tire, 
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion 
rlush'd, [hush'd ? 

Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames arc 
Tis Little! young Catullus of his day, 
As sweet, but as immoral, in his lay ! [just, 
Grieved to condemn, the muse must still be 
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust. 
Pure is the name which o'er her altar burns ; 
From grosser incense with disgust she turns : 
Vet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, [more." 
She bids thee " mend thy line, and sin no 

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, 
To whom such glittering ornaments belong, 
Hibernian Strangford ! with thine eyes of 

blue.si 
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, 
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick miss 

admires, 
And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, 
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine authors 

sense, 
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence. 
Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, 
By dressing Camoens 22 in a suit of lace ? 
Mend, Strangford ! mend thy morals and thy 

taste ; 
£> e warm , but pure ; be amorous , but be chaste : 
Cease to deceive; thy pilfer'd harp restore, 
Nor teach the Lusian bard to copy Moore. 

behold ! — ye tarts ! one moment spare the 

text — 
Hayley's last work, and worst— until his next; 
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, 
Or damn the dead with purgatorial praise, 
His style in youth or age it still the same, 
For ever feeble and for ever tame. [shine! 
Triumphant first see " Temper's Triumphs'* 
At least I 'm sure they triumph' d over mine. 
Of " Music's Triumphs," all who read may 

swear, 
That luckless music never triumph'd there. 23 

Moravians, rise ! bestow some meet reward 
On dull devotion — Lo! the Sabbath bard, 
Sepulchral Grahame,' 2 * pours his notes sublime 
in mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme; 



Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, 
And boldly pilfers fiom the Pentateuch ; 
And, undisturb'd by conscientious qualms, 
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms 

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings 
A thousand visions of a thousand things 
And shows, still whimpering through U. ve 

score of years. 
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteer.-'. 
And art thou not their prince, harmonious 

Bowles ! 
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls ? 
Whether thou sing' st with equal ease, and grief. 
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; 
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells 
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford 

bells, 2 ' 
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend 
In every chime that jingled from Ostend : 
Ah! how much juster were thy muse's hap, 
If to thy bells thou wouldst but add a cap ! 
Delightful Bowles ! still blessing and still blest 
All love thy strain, but children like it best. 
'Tis thine, with gentle Little's moral song, 
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng ! 
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears 
Ere miss as yet completes her infant years : 
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain 
She quits poor Bowles for Little's purer strain. 
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine 
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine ; 
" Awake a louder and a loftier strain," 
Such as none heard before, or will again ! 
Where all Discoveries jumbled from the flood. 
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, 
By more or less, are sung in every book, 
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook. 
Nor this alone; but, pausing on the road, 
The bard sighs forth a gentle episode ; 2 " 
And gravely tells — atteX, each beauteous 

miss ! — 
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 
Bowles ! in thy memory let this precept dwell. 
Stick to thy sonnets, man! — at least they sell. 27 
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribf 
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee lor a 

scribe ; [feai d, 

If chance some bard, though once by dunces 
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered ; 
If Pope, whose fame and genius, lrom the first, 
Have foil'd the best of critics, needs the worst 
Do thou essay : each fault, each failing scan . 
The first of poets was, alas! but man. 
Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, 
Consult Lord Fanny, and confide in Curll •.* 24 > 



132 



ENGLISH BARDS AND 



i^et all the scandals of a former age 
Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page ; 
\ffeat a candour which thou canst not feel, 
Clothe envy in the garb of honest zeal ; 
"Vrite as if St. John's soul could still inspire, 
And do from hate what Mallet 29 did for hire. 
Oh ! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, 
I'o rave with Dennis, and with Ralph to 

rhyme ; 30 
Throng'd with the rest around his living head, 
Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead : 
A meet reward had crown'd thy glorious gains, 
And link'd thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. 

Another epic ! Who inflicts again 
More books of blank upon the sons of men? 
Boeotian Cottle, rich Bristowa's boast, 
Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, 
And sends his goods to market — all alive! 
Lines forty thousand, cantos twenty. five ! 
Fresh fish from Helicon 31 ! who '11 buy? who'll 

buy? 
The precious bargain's cheap — in faith, not I. 
Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, 
Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant J'at: 
If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, 
And Amos Cottle strikes the lyre in vain. 
In him an author's luckless lot behold, 
Condemn'd to make the books which once he 

sold. 
Oh! Amos Cottle! — Phoebus! what a name, 
fo fill the speaking trump of future fame ! — 
Oh, Amos Cottle ! for a moment think 
What meagre profits spring from pen and ink ! 
When thus devoted to poetic dreams, 
Who will peruse thy prostituted reams ? 
Oh pen perverted ! paper misapplied ! 
Had Cottle 3 - still adorn'd the counter's side. 
Bent o'er the desk, or, born to useful toils, 
Been taught to make the paper which he sons,. 
Plough'd, delved, or plied the oar with lusty 

limb. 
He had not sung of Wales, nor I of him. 

As Sisyphus against the infernal steep 
Rolls the huge rock whose motions ne'er may 

sleep, 
So up thy hill, ambrosial Richmond, heaves 
Didl Maurice 33 all his granite weight of leaves. 
Smooth, solid monuments of mental pain ! 
The petrifactions of a plodding brain, 
That ere they reach the top, fall lumbering 

back again. 

With broken lyre, and cheek serenely pale, 
Lo ! sad Alcwus wanders down the vale ; 



Though fair they rose, and might have bloom'd 

at last, 
His hopes have perish'dbythe northern blast 
Nipp'd in the bud by Caledonian gales, 
His blossoms wither as the blast prevails '. 
O'er his lost works let classic Sheffield weep ; 
May no rude hand disturb their early sleep ! }< 

Yet say ! why should the bard at once resign 
His claim to favour from the sacred Nine ? 
For ever startled by the mingled howl 
Of northern wolves, thatstill in darkness prowl ; 
A coward brood, which mangle as they prey, 
By hellish instinct, all that cross their way; 
Aged or young, the living or the dead. 
No mercy find — these harpies 35 must be fed. 
Why do the injured unresisting yield 
The calm possession of their native field ? 
Why tamely thus before their fangs retreat, 
Nor hunt the bloodhounds back to Arthur's 
Seat? 3 ** 

Health to immortal Jeffrey! 37 once, in name, 
England could boast a judge almost the same ; 
In soul so like, so merciful, yet just, 
Some think that Satan has resign 'd his trust. 
And given the spirit to the world again, 
To sentence letters, as he sentenced men. 
With hand less mighty, but with heart as black, 
With voice as willing to decree the rack ; 
Bred in the courts betimes, though all that law 
As yet hath taught him is to find a flaw ; 
Since well instructed in tne patriot school 
To rail at party, though a party tool, 
Who knows, if chance hispatrons should restore 
Back to the sway they forfeited before, 
His scribblingtoilssomerecompensemay m<>.c ! ., 
And raise this Daniel to the judgment-seat ? 
Let Jeffries' shade indulge the pious hope. 
And greeting thus, present him with a rope* 
" Heir to my virtues ! man of equal mind! 
Skill'd to condemn as to traduce mankind, 
This cord receive, for thee reserved with care. 
To wield in judgment, and at length to weai." 

Health to great Jeffrey ! Heaven preserve 
his life 
To flourish on the fertile shores of Fife, 
And guard it sacred in its future wars, 
Since authors sometimes seek the field of Mars. 
Can none remember that eventful day, 
That ever glorious, almost fatal fray, 
When Little's leadless pistol met his eye, 
A ndBow-street myrmidons stood laughing by 03 * 
Oh, day disastrous ! On her firm-set rock, 
Dunedin's castle felt a secret shock : 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



183 



Dark roll'd the sympathetic waves of Forth, 
l.owgroan'd the startled whirlwinds ol 'the north; 
Tweed ruffled halt" his waves to form a tear, 
The other half pursued its calm career; 39 
Arthur's steep summit nodded to its hasc, 
The surly Tolbooth scarcely kept her place ; 
The Tolbooth felt — for marble sometimes can, 
On such occasions, feel as much as man — 
The Tolbooth felt defrauded of her charms, 
,f Jeffrey died, except within her arms: 
Nay, last, not least, on that portentous morn, 
The sixteenth story where himself was born, 
His patrimonial garret, fell to ground, 
And pale Edina shudder'd at the sound: 
Strew'd were the streets around with milk-white 

reams, 
Flow'd all the Canongate with inky streams; 
This of his candour seem'd the sable dew, 
That of his valour show'd the bloodless hue ; 
And all with justice deem'd the two combined 
The mingled emblems of his mighty mind. 
Hut Caledonia's goddess hover'd o'er 
f he field, and saved him from the wrath of 

Moore ; 
From either pistol sna.ch'd the vengeful lead, 
And straight restored it to her favorite's head; 
That head, with greater than magnetic pow'r, 
Caught it, as Danae caught the golden snow'r, 
And, though the thickening dross will scarce 

refine, 
Augments its ore, and is itself a mine. 
' My son," she cried, " ne'er thirst for gore 

again, 
Resign the pistol, and resume the pen ; 
O'er politics and poesy preside. 
Boast of thy country, and Britannia's guide ! 
For long a-. Albion's heedless son* submit, 
Or Scottish taste decides on English wit, 
So long shall last thine unmolested reign, 
Nor any dare to take thy name in vain. 
Behold, a chosen band shall aid thy plan, 
And own thee chieftain of the critic clan. 
First in the oat- fed phalanx shall be seen 
The travell'd thane, Athenian Aberdeen. 40 
Herbert shall wield Thor's hammer**, and 

sometimes, 
In gratitude, thou 'It praise his rugged rhymes, 
Smug Sydney* 2 too thy bitter page shall seek, 
And classic Hallam* 3 , much renow'd for Greek ; 
Scott may perchance his name and influence 

lend, • 
And paltry Pillans** shall traduce his friend ; 
While gay Thalia's luckless votary, Lambe * 5 
Ihimn'd like the devil, devihlike will damn. 
(Lhowii be thy name, unbounded be thy sway ! 
Vhy Holland's banquets shall each toil repay ; 



While grateful Britain yields the praise she own 
To Holland's hirelings and to leamhigs foc». 
Yet mark one caution ere thy next Review 
Spread its light wings of saffron ami of blue. 
Beware lest blundering Brougham destroy die 

sale,* 6 
Turn beef to bannocks, cauliflowers to kail. ' 
Thus having said, the kilted goddess kisi 
Her son, and vanish 'd in a Scottish mist. 



Then prosper Jeffrey ! pertest of the train 
Whom Scotland pampers with her fiery grain ! 
Whatever blessing waits a genuine Scot, 
In double portion sw ells thy glorious lot ; 
For thee Edina culls her evening sweets, 
And showers their odours on thy candid sheets, 
Whose hue and fragrance to thy work adhere — 
This scents its pages, and that gilds its rear *' 
Lo ! blushing Itch, coy nymph, enamoui i 

grown, 
Forsakes the rest, and cleaves to thee alone 
And, too unjust to other Pictish men, 
Enjoys thy person, and inspires thy pen ! 
Illustrious Holland ! hard would be his lot, 
His hirelings mention'd, and himself forgot 1 
Holland, with Henry Petty** a t his back, 
The whipper-in and huntsman of the pack. 
Blest be the banquets spread at Holland House, 
'Where Scotchmen feed.and critics may carouse ! 
Long, long beneath that hospitable roof 
Shall Grub-streetdiue, while duns are kept aloof. 
See honest Hallam lay aside his fork, 
Resume his pen, review his Lordship's work, 
Ami, grateful for the dainties on his plate. 
Declare his landlord can at least translate !*9 
Dunedin ! view thy children with delight. 
They write for food — and feed because they 

write : 
And lest, when heated with the unusual grape 
Some glowing thoughts should to die press 

escape, 
And tinge with red the female reader s check, 
My lady skims the cream of each critique ; 
Breathes o'er the page her purity of soul, 
Reforms each error, and refines the whole. 50 

Now to the Drama turn — Oh ! motley sight ! 
What precious scenes the wondering eyes invite! 
Puns, and a prince within a barrel pent, 51 
And Dibdin's nonsense yield complete content. 
Though now, thank Heaven! the Rosciomania's 

o'er, 
And mil-grown actors are endured once more; 
Yet what "vail their vain attempts to pleiKse, 
While British critics sillier «reiie« like these: 



184 



ENGLISH BARDS AND 



Whi] eReyn olds vents his " dammes ! " "poohs!" 
and '•' zounds ! "32 [lounds ? 

ud common-place and common sense con- 
hile Kenney's "World" — ah! where is 
Kenney s 3;J wit? — 
Tires the. sad gallery, lulls the listless pit ; 
And Beaumont's pill'er'd Caratach affords 

tragedy complete in all but words ?** 
Who but must mourn, while these are all the 

rage, 
i'hc degradation of our vaunted stage ! 
Heavens ! is all sense of shameandtalentgone? 
Have we no living bard of merit:'' — none 1 
Awake, George Oolman 55 ! Cumberland 3 ^ 

awake ! 
Ring the alarum bell ! let folly quake ! 
Oh, Sheridan! if aught can move thy pen, 
Let Comedy assume her throne again ; 
Abjure the mummery of the German schools; 
Leave new Pizarros to translating fools ; 
Give as thy last memorial to the age, 
One classic drama, and reform the stage. 
Gods ! o'er those boards shall Folly rear her head, 
Wnere Garrick trod, and Siddous lives to tread? 
Oil those shall Farce display Buffoon'ry's mask, 
And Hook conceal his heroes in a cask ? 
Shall sapient managers new scenes produce 
From Cherry, Skefhngton, and Mother Goose? 
While Shakspeare, Otway, Massinger, Jorgot, 
On stalls must moulder, or in closets rot? 
Lo ! with what pomp the daily prints proclaim 
The rival candidates lor Attic lame ! 
In grim array though Lewis' spectres rise, 
Still Skeihngton and Goose divide the prize. 
And sure (7/ra/Skefiingtonmustclaimour praise, 
For skirtless coats and skeletons of plays 
Renown'd alike ; whose genius ne'er confines 
Her flight to garnish Greenwood's gay designs ; 
Nor sleeps with " Sleeping Beauties," but anon 
In five lacetious acts comes thundering on, 59 
While poor John Bull.bewilder'd with the scene, 
Stares, wondering what the devil it can mean; 
But as some hands applaud, a venal few ! 
Bather than sleep, why J ohu applauds it too. 

Such are we now. Ah ! wherefore should 
we turn 
To what our fathers were, unless to mourn ? 
Degenerate Britons ! are ye dead to shame, 
Or, kind to dulness, do you tear to blame ? 
Well may the nobles oi our ] resent race 
Watch each distortion of a Naldi's face; 
Well may they smile on Italy's buffoons, 
And worship Catalani's pantaloons, W 
Since their own drama yields no fairer trace 
Of wit than puns, of humour than grimace. 



Then let Au&onia, skill'd in every art 
To soiten manners, but corrupt the heart, 
Pour her exotic follies o'er the town, 
To sanction Vice, and hunt Decorum down ■ 
Let wedded strumpets languish o'er Deshayes 
And bleas the promise which his form display s , 
W'lhleGaytonboundsbeforeth'enrapturedlooki 
Of hoary marquises and stripling aukes: 
Let high-born lechers eye the lively Presle 
Twirl her light limbs, that spurn the needless 

veil; 
Let Angiolini bare her breast of snow, 
Wave the white arm, and point the pliant 

toe; 
Collini trill her love-inspiring song, 
Strain her fair neck, and charm the "listening 

throng ! 
W r het not your scythe, suppressors of our vice ' 
Reforming saints ! too delicately nice ! 
By whose dvcrees, our sinful souls to save, 
No Sunday tankards foam, no barbers shave, 
And beer undrawn, and beards uumown,displaj 
Your holy reverence for the Sabbath-day. 

Or hail at once the patron and the pile 
O. vice and 'oily, Grevilie and Argylc ! bl 
Where yon proud pa'nee. Fashion's hallow'fl 

lane, 
Spreads wide her portals for the motley train 
Behold the new Petronius 62 of the day, 
Our arbiter of pleasure and of play ! 
There the hired eunuch the Hesperian choir, 
The melting lute, the solt lascivious lyre, 
The song from Italy, the step from France, 
The midnight orgy, and the mazy dance, 
The smile of beauty, and the dush of wine, 
For lops, fools, gamesters, knaves, and lords: 

combine : 
Each to his humour — Comus all allows; 
Champaign, dice, music, or your neighbour's 

spouse. 
Talk not to us, ye starviirg sons of trade ; 
Of piteous ruin, which ourselves have made; 
In Plenty's sunshine Fortune's minions bask, 
Nor think of poverty, except " en masque," 
When for the night some lately titled ass 
Appears the beggar which his grandsire was. 
The curtain dropp'd, the gay burletta o'er, 
The audience take their turn upon the floor ; 
Now round the room the circling dow'gers 
sweep, f leap , 

Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters 
The first in lengthen'd line majestic swim, 
The last display the free unfetter' d limb ! 
1'hose for Hibernia's iusty sons repair [spare, 
W r ith arl the chaims winch nature could m*f 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



185 



riese after husbands wing their eager flight, 
Nor leave much mystery for the nuptial night. 

Oh ! blest retreats of infamy and ease, 
Where ail forgotten but the power to please, 
Kueh maid may give a loose to genial thought, 
"tavh swain may teach new systems, or be 

taught: [Spain, 

f here the blithe youngster, just return'd from 
Cuts the light pack, or calls the rattling main ; 
The jovial caster s set, and seven 's the nick. 
Or — done ! — a thousand on the coming trick ! 
If, mad with loss, existence 'gins to tire, 
And all your hope or wish is to expire. 
Here's Powell's pistol ready for your life, 
And, kinder still, two Pagets for your wife ; 
Fit consummation of an earthly race, 
Begun in folly, ended in disgrace ; 
While none but menials o'er the bed of death, 
Wash thy red wounds, or watch thy wavering 

breath ; 
Traduced by liars, and forgot by all, 
The mangled victim of a drunken brawl, 
To live like Clodius, and like Falkland fall. 



Truth ! rouse some genuine bard, and guide 

his hand, 
To drive this pestilence from out the land. 
E 'en I — least thinking of a thoughtless throng, 
Just skill'd to know the right and choose the 

wrong, 
Freed at that age when reason's shield is lost, 
To right my course through passion's countless 

host, 
Whom every path of pleasure's flow'ry way 
Has lured in turn, and all have led astray — 
E'en I must raise my voice, e'en I must feel 
Such scenes, such men, destroy the public weal ; 
Although some kind, censorious friend will say, 
" What art thou better, meddling fool, than 

they ?" 
And every brother rake will smile to see 
That miracle, a moralist in me. 
No matter — when some bard in virtue strong, 
Gitibrd perchanj;, shall raise the chastening 

song, 
Then sleep my p^£ for ever ! and my voice 
Be only heard to hail him, and rejoice ; 
Rejoice, and yield my feeble praise, though I 
May feel the lash that Virtue must apply. 

As for the smaller fry, who swarm in shoals 
From silly Hafiz up to simple Bowles, 
Why should we call them from their d ark abode. 
In broad St Giles's or in Tottenham-road ? 



Or (since some men of fashion nobly dare 
To scrawl in verse) from Bond-street or the 

Square? 
If things of ton their harmless lays indite, 
Most wisely doom d to shun the public sight 
What harm? In spite of every critic elf, 
Sir T. may read his stanzas to himseli ; 
Miles Andrews^still his strength in couplets try 
And live in prologues, though his dramas die 
Lords too are bards, such things at times befall, 
And 't is some praise in peers to write at all. 
Yet, did or taste or reason sway the times, 
Ah ! who would take their titles with their 

rhymes ? 
Roscommon ! Sheffield', with your spirits fled, 
No future laurels deck a noulc head: 
No muse will cheer, with renovating srane, 
The paralytic puling of Carlisle. 
The puny schoolboy and his early lay 
Men pardon, if his follies pass away, 
But who forgives the senior's ceaseless verse 
Whose hairs grow hoary as his rhymes grow 

worse? 
What heterogeneous honours deck the peer ! 
Lord, rhymester, petit-maitre, pamphleteer ! 64 
So dull in youth, so drivelling in his age, 
Hisscenes alone had damn'd our sinking stage- 
But managers for once cried, " Hold, enough !" 
Nordrugg'd their audience with the tragic stirrx 
Yet at their judgment let his lordship laugh, 
And case his volumes in congenial calf: 
Yes ! dorF that covering, where morocco shine* 
And hang a calf-skin on those recreant lines. 

With you, ye Druids ! rich in native lead. 
Who daily scribble for your daily bread ; 
With you I war not: Gilford's heavy hand 
Has crush'd, without remorse, your num^raua 

band. 
On " all the talents " vent your venal spleen; 
Want is your plea, let pity be your screen. 
Let monodies on Fox regale your crew, 
And Melville's Mantle 65 prove a blanket too! 
One common Lethe waits each hapless bard, 
And, peace be with you! 'tis your best reward. 
Such damning fame as Dunciads only give 
Could bid your lines beyond a morning live; 
But now at once your rleeting labours close, 
With names of greater note in blest repose. 
Far be 't from me unkindly to upbraid 
The lively Rosa's prose in masquerade, 
Whose strains, the faithful echoes of her mind. 
Leave wondering comprehension far behind. 64 ' 
Though Crusca's bards no more our journals 

fill, [still 

Some stragglers skirmish round the columns 



186 



ENGLISH BARDS AND 



Last of the howling host which once was Bell's, 
Matilda snivels yet, and Haliz yells ; 
And Merry's metaphors appear anew, 
Chain' d to the signature of O. P. Q.^ 7 

When some brisk youth, the tenant of a 

stall,** 
Employs a pen less pointed than his awl, 
Leaves his snug shop, forsakes his store of shoes, 
St. Crispin emits, and cobbles lor the muse, 
Heavens! how the vulgar stare! how crowds 

applaud ! 
How ladies read, and literati laud ! ' 9 
If chance some wicked wag -should pass hisjest, 
Tis sheer ill-nature — don't the world know 

best? [rhyme, 

Genius must guide when wits admire the 
And Cupel Loth™ declares 'tis quite sublime. 
Hear, then, ye happy sons of needless trade! 
Swains! quit the plough, resign the useless 

spade ' 
Lo! Burns 71 and Bloomfield, nay, a greater far, 
Gilford was born beneatli an adverse star, 
Forsook the labours of a servile state, [fate: 
Stemin'd the rude storm, and triumph'd over 
Then why no more ? if Phoebus smiled on 

you 
Biooinlield! why not on brother Nathan too? 7 ' 
Him too the mania, not the muse, has seized; 
Not inspiration, but a mind diseased : ; 

And now no boor can seek his last abode, 
No common be enclosed without an ode. 
Oh! since inereasedrehnementdeigns to smile 
On Britain's sons, and bless our genial isle, 
Let poesy go forth, pervade the whole, 
Alike the rustic, and mechanic soul! 
Ye tuneful cobblers! still your notes prolong, 
Compose at once a slipper and a song ; 
So shall the fair your handy work peruse, 
Your sonnets sure shall please — perhaps your 

shoes. 
May Moorland weavers 72 boast Pindaric skill, 
And tailois' lays be longer than their bill! 
While punctual beaux reward the grateful 

nates, 
And pay for poems — when they pay for coats. 

To the famed throng now paid the tribute 
due, 
Neglected genius ! let me turn to you. [scope; 
Come forth, oh Campbell!"" 3 give thy talents 
Who dares aspire if thou must cease tofiopei* 
And thou, melodious Rogers ! rise at last, 
Recall the pleasing memory of the past : 
Arise! let blest remermYance still inspire, 
4nd strike to wonted tones thy hallow'd lr" ;; 



Restore Apollo to his vacant throne, 
Assert thy country's honour and thine own. 
What ! must deserted Poesy stiil weep 
Whore her last hopes with pious Cowper sleep? 
Unless, perchance, from his cold bier she turns 
To deck the turf that wraps her minstrel 
Burns ! [ rious bro- >d 

No ! though contempt, hath mark'd the spu 
The race who rhyme from folly, or for foou. 
Vet still some genuine sons 'tisher'sto bou.l 
W T ho, least affecting, stiil affect the most: 
Feel as they write, and write but as they feel- 
Bear witness Gilford,"-* Sotheby, 75 Macneil"* 

" Why slumbers Gilford?" once was atkd 

in vain ; 
Why slumbers Girlbrd? let us ask again. 
Are there no follies for his pen to purge ? 77 
Are there no fools whose backs demand the 

scourge ? 
Arc there no sins for satire's bard to greet ? 
Stalks not gigantic Vice in every street? 
Shall peers or princes tread pollution's path, 
And 'scape alike the law's and muse's wrath? 
Nor blaze with guilty glare through future time 
Eternal beacons of consummate crime? 
Arouse thee, Girlbrd ! be thy promise claim d, 
Make bad men better, or at least ashamed. 

Unhappy White! 78 while life vtas in its 

spring, [wing, 

And thy young muse just waved her joyous 
The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
Oh! what a noble heart was here undone, 
When Science' self destroy 'd her favourite son 
Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, 
She sow'd the seeds, but death has reap'd the 

fruit. 
'T was thine own genius gave the final blow, 
And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee 

low : 
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, 
No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, 
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart; 
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel. 
He nursed the pinion which impell'd the steel; 
While the same plumage that had warm'd his 

nest 
Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast. 

There be, who say, in these enlighten'd days 
That splendid lies are all the poet's praise ■ 
That strain'd invention, ever on the wing, 
Alone impels the modern bard to sing : 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



1ST 



Tis true, that all who rhyme — nay, all who 
write, 

Shrink from that fatal word to genius — trite ; 
Yet Truth sometimes will lend her noblest, fires, 
And decorate the verse herself inspires : 
This fact in Virtue's name let Crabbe attest ; 
Though nature's sternest painter, yet the best. 

And here let Shee 79 and Genius find a place, 
Whose pen and pencil yield an equal grace; 
To guide whose hand the sister arts combine, 
And trace the poet's or the painter's line ; 
Whose magic touch can bid the canvass glow, 
Or pour the easy rhyme's harmonious flow, 
While honours, doubly merited, attend 
The poet's rival, but the painter's friend. 

Blest is the man who dares approach the 
bower 
Where dwelt the muses at their natal hour; 
Whose steps have press'd, whose eye has 

mark'd afar, 
The clime that nursed the sons of song and war, 
The scenes which glory still must hover o'er, 
Her place of birth, her own Achaian shore. 
But doubly blest is he whose heart expands 
With hallow' d feelings forthose classic lands; 
Who rends the veil of ages long gone by, 
And views their remnants with a poet's eye! 
Wright! 80 'twas thy happy lot at once to view 
Those shores of glory, and to sing them too; 
And sure no common muse inspired thy pen 
To hail the land of gods and godlike men. 

And you, associate bards ! 81 who snatch'd to 

light [sight ; 

Those gems too long withheld from modern 

Whose mingling taste combined to cull the 

wreath 
Where Attic flowers Aonian odours breathe, 
And all their renovated fragrance flung, 
To grace the beauties of your native tongue ; 
Now let those minds, that nobly could transfuse 
The glorious spirit of the Grecian muse, 
Though soft the echo, scorn a borrow'd tone: 
Resign Achaia's lyre, and strike your own. 

Lest these, or such as these, with just 
applause, 
Restore the muses violated laws; 
But not iu flimsy Darwin's pompous chime, 
That mighty master of unmeaning rhyme, 
Whose gilded cymbals, more adorn'd than clear, 
1'he eve delighted, but. fatigued the ear; 
In show the simple lyre could once surpass, 
But now, worn down, appear in native brass; 



While all his train of hovering sylphs around 
Evaporate in similes and sound:" 
Him let them shun, with him let tinsel die: 
False glare attracts, but more offends the eye. 

Yet let them not to vulgar Wordsworth 
stoop, 
The meanest object of the lowly group, 
Whose verse, of all but childish prattle void, 
Seems blessed harmony to Lambe and Llovd : 82 
Let them — but hold, my muse, nor di'v to 

teach 
A strain far, far beyond thy humble reach : 
The native genius with their being given 
Will point the path, and peal their notes ic 
heaven. 

Andthou.too, Scott, resign to minstrels rude 
The wilder slogan of a border feud : 
Let others spin tneir meagre lines for hire ; 
Enough for genius, if itself inspire! 
Let Southey sing, although his teeming muse, 
Prolific every spring, be too profuse ; [verse 
Let simple Wordsworth chime his childish 
And brother Coleridge lull the babe at nurse; 
Let spectre-mongering Lewis aim, at most, 
To rouse the galleries, or to raise a ghost ; 
Let Moore still sigh; let Strangford steal from 
Moore, [yore ; 

And swear that Camoens sang such notes of 
Let Hayley hobble on, Montgomery rave, 
And godly Grahame chant a stupid stave; 
Let sonneteering Bowles his strains refine, 
And whine and whimper to the fourteenth line; 
Let Scott, Carlisle, Matilda, and the rest 
Of Grub-street, and of Grosvenor-place the best, 
Scrawl on, till death release us frntL. the strain. 
Or Common Sense assert her ri^nts again. 
But thou, with powers that mock the aid of 

praise, 
Shouldst leave to humbler bards ignoble lavs- 
Thy country's voice, the voice of all the nine, 
Demand a hallow'd harp — that harp is thine 
Say! will not Caledonia's annals yield 
The glorious record of some nobler held, 
Than the wild foray of a plundering clan, 
Whose proudest deeds disgrace the name ,<l 

man? 
Or Marmion's acts of darkness, fitter food 
For Sherwood'3 outlaw tales of Robin Hood? 
Scotland! still proudly claim thy native baru 
And be thy praise his first, his best reward ! 
Yet not with thee alone his name should live 
But own the vast renown a world can give ; 
Be known, perchance, when Albion is no more 
And tell the tale of what she was before ; 



188 



ENGLISH BARDS AND 



To future times her faded fame recall, 

\nd save her glory, though his country fall. 

Vet what avails the sanguine poet's hope, 
To conquer ages, and with time to cope ? 
N'-w eras spread their wings, new nations rise. 
And other victors fill the applauding skies; 
A few brief generations fleet along, 
Whose sons forget the poet and his song. 
E'en now, what once-loved minstrels scarce 

may claim 
The transient mention of a dubious name ! 
When fame's loud trump hath blown its noblest 

blast, 
Though long the sound, the echo sleeps at last; 
And glory, like the pha.nix 'midst her fires, 
Exhales her odours, biaz.es, and expires. 

Shall hoary Granta call her sable sons, 
Expert in science, more expert at puns? 
Shall these approach the muse ? ah, no ! she flies, 
Even from the tempting ore of Seaton's prize ; 
Though printers condescend the press to soil 
With rhvme bv Hoare 83 , anc l e pic blank by 

Hoyle:84* 
Not him whose page, if still upheld by whist, 
Requires no sacred theme to bid us list, 85 
Ye ! who in Granta's honours would surpass, 
Must mount her Pegasus, a full-grown ass; 
A foal well worthy of her ancient dam, 
Whose Helicon is duller than her Cam. 

There Clarke, still striving piteously " to 
please," 
Forgetting doggrel leads not to degrees, 
A would be satirist, a hired buffoon, 
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon. 
C jndemn : d to drudge, the meanest of the mean, 
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine, 
Devotes to scandal his congenial mind; 
Himself a living libel on mankind. 

Oh ! dark asylum of a Vandal race ! 8(5 
At once the boast of learning, and disgrace ! 
So lost to Phoebus, that nor Hodgson's 8 " verse 
Can make thee better, nor poor Hewson's 88 

worse. 
But where fair Isis rolls her purer wave, 
The partial muse delighted loves to lave ; 
On her green banks a greener wreath she wove, 
To crown the bards that haunt her classic grove; 
Wnere Richards wakes a genuine poet's fires, 
And modern Britons glory in their sires. 89 

For me, who, thus unask'd have daren to tell 
My country .what her sons should know too well . 



Zeal for her honour bade me here engage 
The host of idiots that infest her age; 
No just applause her honour'd name shall lose, 
As first hi freedom, dearest to the muse. 
Oh ! would thy bards but emulate thy fame, 
And rise more worthy, Albion, of thy name! 
What Athens was in science, Rome in power, 
What Tyro- appear'd in her meridian hour, 
T is thine at once, fair Albion { to have been — 
Earth's chief dictatress, oceun's lovely queen- 
But Rome decay'd, and Athens strew'd the 

plain, [main; 

4nd Tyre's proud piers lie shatter'd in tie 
Like these, thy strength may sink, in ruin 

hurl'd, 
And Britain fall, the bulwark of the world. 
But let me cease, and dread Cassandra's fate 
With warning ever scoff "d at, till too late; 
To themes less lofty still my lay confine, 
And urge thy bards to gain a name like thine. 

Then, hapless Britain! be thy rulers blest 
The senate's oracles, the people's jest! 
Still hear thy motley orators dispense 
The flowers of rhetoric, though not of sense, 
While Canning's colleagues hate him for his 

wit, 
And old dame Portland 90 fills the place of Pitt 

Yet once a™ain, adieu! ere this the sail 
That wafts me hence is shivering in the gale 
And Afric's coast and Calpe's adverse height 
And Stamboul's minarets must greet my sight: 
Thence shall I strav through beauty's native 

clime 9 ! 
Where Kaff is clad in rocks, and crown'd wit)' 

snows sublime. 
But should I back return, no tempting }«■•-*:> 
Shall drag my journal from the desk's '.cess: 
Let coxcombs, printing as thp; .^Km irom far, 
Snatch his own wreath of rid. .sale from Carr ; 9 * 
Let Aberdeen and Elgin 93 still pursue 
The shade of fame through regions of virtu; 
Waste useless thousands on their Phidian 

freaks, 
Misshapen monuments and maim'd antiques; 
And make their grand saloons a general mail 
For all the mutilated blocks of art. 
Of Dardan tours let dilettanti tell, 
I leave topography to rapid 94 Gell; 95 
And, quite content, no more shall interpose 
To stun the public ear — at least with prose. 

Thus far I 've held my undisturb'd career, 
Prepared for rancour, steel'd 'gainst selfisi 
fear : 



SCOTCH REVIEWERS. 



189 



This thing of rhyme I ne'er disdain'd to own — 

Though not obtrusive, yet not. quite unknown: 
My voice was heard again, though not so loud, 
My page, though nameless, never disavow'd; 
And now at once I tear the veil away: — 
Cheer on the pack ! the quarry stands at bay, 
Unscared by all the din of Melbourne house, 
By Lambe's resentment, or by Holland's spouse, 
By Jeffrey's harmless pistol, Hallam's rage, 
Edina's brawny sons and brimstone page. 
Our men in buckram shall have blows enough, 
And feel they too " are penetrable stuff:" 
And though I hope not hence unscathed to go, 
Who conquers me shall find a stubborn foe. 
The time hath been, when no harsh sound 

would fall 
From lips thatnowmay seem imbued withgall; 
Nor fools nor follies tempt me to despise 
The meanest thing that crawl'd beneath ur.y 



But now, so callous grown, so changed sine* 

youth, 
I 've learn 'd to think, and sternly speak the 

truth ; 
Learn'd to deride the critic's starch decree, 
And break him on the wheel he meant for me, 
To spurn tne rod a scribbler bids me ki.vs, 
Nor care if courts and crowds applaud or hiss: 
Nay more, though all my rival rhymesters 

frown, 
I too, can hunt a poetaster down ; 
And, ann'd in proof, the gauntlet cast at once 
To Scotch marauder, and to southern dunce. 
Thus much I 've dared; if my incondite lay 
Hath wrong'd these righteous times, let oth'eri 

say : 
This, let the world, which knows not how So 

spare, 
Yet rarely blames unjustly, noy> dccluse.^ 



i^ebreto JHetotues.' 



ADVERTISEMENT 

The subsequent poems were written at the 
request of my iriend, the Hon. Douglas 
K innaivd, for a Selection of Hebrew Melodies 2 , 
and have been published, with the music, ar- 
ranged by Mr. Brahain and Mr. Nathan. 
January, 1815. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.* 

Shk walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies ; 

And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes : 

Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o'er her face ; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how tear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, 

So soft, so dim, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 

But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent' 



THE HARP THE MONARCH MIN- 
STREL SWEPT. 

Iiie harp the monarch minstrel swept. 
The King of men, the loved of Heaven, 

Which Music hallow 'd while she wept 
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, 
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven 



It soflen'd men of iron mould, 

It gave them virtues not their own ; 

No ear so dull, no soid so cold, 
That, felt not, fired not to the tone, 
Till David's lyre grew mightier than hu 
throne ! 

It told the triumphs of our King, 

It wafted glory to our God ; 
It made our gladden'd valleys ring, 

The cedars bow, the mountains nod ; 

Its sound aspired to Heaven and there abode 
Since then, though heard on earth no more, 

Devotion and her daughter Love, 
Still bid the bursting spirit soar 

To sounds that seem as from abov<:, 

In dreams that day's broad lighi can ,iu» 
removo. 



IF THAT HIGH WORLD. 

If that high world, which lies beyond 

Our own, surviving Lnv< uidears; 
If there the chensn a neart, be fond, 

The eye the same, except in tears- - 
How welcome those untr >dden spumes 

How sweet this very I our to die! 
To soar from earth and <ind all lean, 

Lost in thy light — E emrty ! 

It must, be so : 'tis not for self 

That we so tremDie vm the brink ; 
And striving to o'erieap the yulf, 

Yet cling" to Being's severing link 
Oh ! in that future let us think 

To hold each heart the heart that t.".^.ei 
With them the immortal waters drink 

And soul in soul g'ow deathless thu ■! 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



191 



THE WILD GAZELLE. 



ON JORDAN'S BANKS 



Thk wild gazelle on Judah's hills 

Exulting yet may bound, 
And drink from all the living rills 

That gush on holy ground ; 
Its any step and glorious eye 
May glance in tameless transport by: — 

A step as fleet, an eye more bright. 

Hath Judah witness'd there; 
And o'er her scenes of lost delight 

Inhabitants more fair. 
The cedars wave on Lebanon, 
But Judah's statelier maids are gone 

More blest each palm that shades those plains 

Than Israel's scatter 'd race : 
For, taking root, it there remains 

In solitary grace : 
It cannot quit its place of birth, 
It will not live in other earth. 

But we must wander witheringly, 

In other lands to die ; 
And where our fathers' ashes be, 

Our own may never lie : 
Our temple hath not left a stone, 
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne. 



OH ! WEEP FOR THOSE. 

Oh ! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream, 
Whose shrinesaredcsolate.whoseland adream ; 
Wer.p for the harp of Judah's broken shell ; 
Mourn — where their God hath dwelt the God- 
less dwell ! 

And where shall Israel 'ave her bleeding feet? 
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet ? 
And Judah's melody once more rejoice 
Thehearts that leap'd before itsheavenly voice? 

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast, 
How shall ye flee away and be at rest ! 
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave, 
Mankind their country — Israel but the grave. 



On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stra.T 
On Sion's hill the False One's votaries praj 
The Baal-adorer bows on Sinai's steep — 
Yet there — even there — Oh God! thy thin, 
ders sleep : 

There — where thy finger scorch'd the table* 

stone ! 
There — where thy shadow to thy people shone. 
Thy glory shrouded in its garb of fire: 
Thyself — none living see and not expire. 

Oh ! in the lightning let thy glance appeal ; 
Sweep from his shiver'd hand the oppressor s 

spear : 
How long by tyrants shall thy land be trod ! 
Hew long thy temple worshipless, Oh God ! 



JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. 

Since our Country, our God — Oh, my sire 
Demand that thy Daughter expire; 
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow — 
Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now ! 

And the voice of my mourning is o'er, 
And the mountains behold me no more: 
If the hand that I love lay me low, 
There cannot be pain in the blow ! 

And of this, oh, my Father ! be sure — 

That the blood of thy child is as pure 

As the blessing I beg ere it flow, 

And the last thought that soothes me below. 

Though the virgins of Salem lament, 
Be the judge and the hero unbent! 
I have won the great battle for thee, 
And my father and country are free! 

When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd, 
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd, 
Let my memory still be thy pride, 
And forget not I smiled as I died ! 



OH 



SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S 
BLOOM. 



Oh ! snatch'd away in beauty's bloom, 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb : 



192 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year ; 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom • 

^nd oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 

And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread ; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the 
dead! 

Away '. we know that tears are vain, 
That death nor heeds nor hears distress . 

Will this unteach us to complain ? 
Or make one mourner weep the less? 

And thou — who tell'st me to forget, 

Thy l<MK!s «re wan, thine eyes are wet. 



MY SOCJL IS DARK. 

My soul is dark — Oh! quickly string 

The harp I yet can brook to hear ; 
ind let thy gentle fingers fling 

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. 
f in this heart a hope be dear, 

That sound shall charm it forth again : 
if in these eyes there lurk a tear, 

T will flow, and cease to burn my brain 

But bid the strain be wild and deep, 

Nor let thy notes of joy be first: 
1 tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, 

Or else this heavy heart will burst; 
For it hath been my sorrow nursed. 

And ached in sleepless silence long ; 
And now 't is doom'd to know the worst, 

And break at once — or yield to song. 



I SAW THEE WEEP. 

I saw thee weep — the big bright tear 

Came o'er that, eye of blue ; 
And then methought it did appear 

A violet dropping dew : 
I saw thee smile — the sapphire's blaa^ 

Beside thee ceased to shine ; 
It could not match the living rays 

That fill'd that glance of thine. 

As clouds from yonder sun receive 

A deep and mellow dye, 
Which scarce the shade of coming eve 

Can banish from the sky, 



Those smiles unto the moodiest mi ad 
Their own pure joy impart ; 

Their sunshine leaves a glow behind 
That lightens o'er the heart. 



THY DAYS ARE DONE. 

Thy days are done, thy fame begun : 

Thy country's strains record 
The triumphs of her chosen Son, 

The slaughters of his sword ! 
The deeds he did, the fields he won, 

The freedom he restored ! 

Though thou art fall'n, while we are fre* 
Thou shalt not taste of death ! 

The generous blood that llow'd from luet 
Disdain'd to sink beneath : 

Within our veins its currents be, 
Thy spirit on our breath ! 

Thy name, our charging hosts along, 

Shall be the battle-word ! 
Thy fall, the theme of choral song 

From virgin voices pour'd ! 
To weep would do thy glories wrong; 

Thou shalt not be deplored. 



SONG OF SAUL BEFORE HIS LAST 
BATTLE. 

Warriors and chiefs! should the shaft orth< 

sword 
Pierce me in leading the host of the Lord, 
Heed not the corse, though a king's, in yoiu 

path : 
Bury your steel in the bosoms of Gath! 

Thou who art bearing my bnckler and bow. 
Should the soldiers of Saul look away from 

the foe, 
Stretch me that, moment in blood at thy feet! 
Mine be the doom which they dared not to meet 

Farewell to others, but never we part. 
Heir to my royalty, son of my heart ! 
Bright is the diadem, boundless the sway, 
Or kingly the death, which awaits us to-day. 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



193 



SAUL. 

Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 

Bid the prophet's form appear. 
" Samuel, raise thy buried head ! 
King, behold the phantom seer!" 
Earth yawn'd ; he stood the centre of a cloud : 
Light changed its hue, retiring from his 

shroud. 
Death stood all glassy in his fixed eye ; 
His hand was wither'd, and his veins were dry; 
His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there. 
Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare : 
From lips that moved not and unbreathing 

frame, 
Like cavern'd m inds, the hollow accents came. 
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, 
At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke. 

" Why is my sleep disquieted ? 
Who is he that calls the dead ? 
Is it thou, O King? Behold, 
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold : 
Such are mine ; and such shall be 
Thine to-morrow, when with me . 
Ere the coming day is done, 
Such shalt thou be, such thy son. 
Fare thee well, but for a day, 
Then we mix our mouldering clay. 
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, 
Pierced by shafts of many a bow ; 
And the falchion by thy side 
To thy heart thy hand shall guide: 
Crownless, breathless, headless fall, 
Son and sire, the house of Saul. 



" all is vanity, saith the 
preacher- 
Fame, wisdom, love, and power were min 

And health and youth possess'd me; 
My goblets blush'd from every vine, 

And lovely forms caress'd me ; 
» sunn'd my heart ir beauty's eyes, 

And felt my soul grow tender ; 
Al! earth can give, or mortal prize, 

Was mine of regal splendour. 

1 strive to number o'er what days 

Remembrance can discover, 
Which all that life or earth displays 

Would lure me to live over. 
There rose no day, there roli'd no hour 

Of pleasure unembitter'd ; 



And not a trapping deck'd my power, 
That gall'd not while it glitter'd. 

The serpent of the field, by art 

And spells, is won from harming ; 
But that which coils around the heart, 

Oh ! who hath power of charming ? 
It will not list to wisdom's lore, 

Nor music's voice can lure it ; 
But there it stings for evermore 

The soul that must endure it. 



WHEN COLDNESS WRAPS THIS 
SUFFERING CLAY. 

When coldness wraps this suffering clay. 

Ah ! whither strays the immortal mind ? 
It cannot die, it cannot stray, 

But leaves its darken'd dust behind. 
Then, unembodied, doth it trace 

By steps each planet's heavenly way? 
Or fill at once the realms of space, 

A thing of eyes, that all survey ? 

Eternal, boundless, undecay'd, 

A thought unseen, but seeing all, 
All, all in earth, or skies display'd, 

Shall it survey, shall it recall : 
Each fainter trace that memory holds 

So darkly of departed years, 
In one broad glance the soul beholds, 

And all, that was, at once appears. 

Before Creation peopled earth, 

Its eye shall roll through chaos back , 
And where the furthest heaven had birth, 

The spirit trace its rising track. 
And where the future mars or makes, 

Its glance dilate o'er all to be, 
While sun is quench'd or system breaks, 

Fix'd in its own eternity. 

Above or Love, Hope, Hate, or Fear, 

It lives all passionless and pure : 
An age shall fleet like earthly year; 

Its year's as moments shall endure. 
Away, away, without a wing. 

O'er all, through all, its thought stall fly; 
A nameless and eternal thing, 

Forgetting what it was to die 



14 



194 HEBREW MELODIES. 


VISION OF BELSKAZZAR. 


SUN OF THE SLEEPLESS. 


The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps throng'd the hall ; 
A thousand bright lamps shone 


Scn of the sleepless ! melancholy star ! 


"Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far, 


That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel 


O'er that high festival. 
A thousand cups of gold, 


How like art thou to joy remember'd well ! 


So gleams the past, the light of other days, 


In Judah deem'd divine — 


Which shines, but warms not with its power 


Jehovah's vessels hold 


less rays; 


The godless Heathen's wine. 


A night-beam Sorrow watcheth to behold, 
Distinct, but distant — clear — but oh, how cold 


In that same hour and hall, 


• 


The fingers of a hand 




Came forth against the wall, 




And wrote as if on sand: 




The fingers of a man ; — 


WERE MY BOSOM AS FALSE AS 


A solitary hand 


THOU DEEM'ST IT TO BE. 


Along the letters ran, 




And traced them like a wand. 


Were my bosom as false as thou deem'st ** 




to be, 


The monarch saw, and shook, 


I need not have wander'd from far Galilee ; 


And bade no more rejoice; 


It was but abjuring my creed to efface 


All bloodless wax'd his look, 


The curse which, thou say'st, is the crime of 


And tremulous his voice. 


my race : 


" Let the men of lore appear, 


The wisest of the earth, 


If the bad never triumph, then God is with 


And expound the words of fear, 


thee ! 


Which mar our royal mirth." 


If the slave only sin, thou art spotless and 

free ! 
If the Exile on earth is an Outcast on high, 


Chaldea's seers are good, 


But here they have no skill ; 


Live on in thy faith, but in mine I will die. 


And the unknown letters stood 




Untold and awful still. 


I have lost for that faith more than thou cans* 


And Babel's men of age 


bestow, 


Are wise and deep in lore ; 


As the God who permits thee to prosper dota 


But now tney were not sage, 


know ; 


They saw — but knew no more. 


In his hand is my heart and my hope — an* 




in thine 


A captive in the land, 


The land and the life which for him I resign 


A stranger and a youth, 




He, heard the king's command, 




He saw that writing's truth, 




The lamps around were bright, 




The prophecy in view ; 




He read it on that night, — 


HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.* 


The morrow proved it true. 






Oh, Mariamne ! now for thee 


" Belshazzar's grave is made, 


The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; 


His kingdom pass'd away, 


Revenge is iost in agony, 


He, in the balance weigh' d, 


And wild remorse to rage succeeding. 


Is light and worthless clay, 


Oh, Mariamne ! where art thou ? 


The shroud, his robe of state, 


Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading. 


His canopy the stone: 
The Mede is' at his gate! 


Ah ! couldst thou — thou wouldst pardon now, 


Though Heaven were to my prayer unheecl 


The Persian on his throne.' 


ing 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



195 



And is she dead? — and did they dare 

Obey my frenzy's jealous raving? 
Mv wrath but doom'd my own despair: 

The sword that smote her's o'er me 
waving. — 
But thou art cold, my murder'd love ! 

And this dark heart is vainly craving 
For her who soars alone above, 

And leaves my soul unworthy saving. 

She's gone, who shared my diadem; 

She sunk, with her my joys entombing ; 
1 swept that flower from Judah's stem, 

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming ; 
And mine 's the guilt, and mine the hell, 

This bosom's desolation dooming ; 
And I have earn'd those tortures well, 

Winch unconsumed are still consuming ! 



ON THE DAY OF THE DESTRUCTION 
OF JERUSALEM BY TITUS. 

Feom the last hill that looks on thy once holy 
dome [Rome . 

I beheld thee, oh Sion ! when render'd to 

'T was thy last sun went down, and the flames 
of thy fall [wall. 

Flash'd back on the last glance I gave to thy 

I look'd for thy temple, I look'd for my 
home, 

And forgot for a moment my bondage to come ; 

£ beheld but th? death-fire that fed on thy 
fane, 

And the fast fetter'd hands that made ven- 
geance in vain. 

On many an eve, the high spot whence 1 gazea 
Had inflected the last beam of day as it blazed; 
While I stood on the height, and beheld the 

decline 
Of the rays from the mountain that shone on 

thy shrine. 

ind now on that mountain I stood on that 
day, [away ; 

But I mark'd not the twilight beam melting 

Oh ! would that the lightning had glared in 
its stead, 

And the thunderbolt burst on the conqueror's 
head ! 



But the Gods of the Pagan 5 hall never profam 
The shrine where Jehovah disdain'd not to 
reign ; lDe , 

And scatter'd and scorn'd as thy people maj 
Our worship, oh Father, is only for thee. 



BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON WE 
SAT DOWN AND WEPT. 

We sate down and wept by the waters 
Of Babel, and thought of the day 

When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters, 
Made Salem's high places his prey ; 

And ye, oh her desolate daughters ! 
Were scatter'd all weeping away. 

While sadly we gazed on the river 
Which roll'd on in freedom below, 

They demanded the song ; but, oh never 
That triumph the stranger shall know ' 

May this right hand be wither'd for ever 
Ere it string our high harp for the foe ! 

On the willow that harp is suspended, 
Oh Salem ! its sound should be free ; 

And the hour when thy glories were endea 
But left me that token of thee • 

And ne'er shall its soft tones be blended 
With the voice of the spoiler by me ! 



THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNA 
CHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on 

the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and 

gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars 

on the sea, [Galilee. 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep 

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is 
green, Lseen 

That host with their banners at sunset were 
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn 



hath blown. 



[strown. 



That host on the morrow lay wither'd ai 
o2 



19G 



HEBREW MELODIES. 



For the Angei of Death spread his wings on 
the blast, [pass'd ; 

And breathed in the face of the foe as he 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxd deadly and 
chill, [grew still! 

And their hearts but once heav'd, and for ever 

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, 
But through it there roll'd not the breath of 
his pride: [turf, 

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his 

mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the 
sword, [Lord ! 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of the 



A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE MB 

FROM JOB. 

A spirit pass'd before me: I beheld 

The face of immortality unveil'd — 

Deep sleep came down on every eye sav 

miae — 
And there it stood, — all formless — but di 

vine : 
Along my bones the creeping 'flesh did quake; 
And as my damp hair stilTen'd, thus it spake : 

" Is man more just than God? Is man more 

pure 
Than he who deems even Seraphs insecure ? 
Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the 

dust ! 
The moth survives you, and are ye more 

just ? 
Things of a day ! you wither ere the night, 
Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted 

light!" 



©tie to Nautili 


ton Buonaparte* 


" Expendc Annibalem : — quot libras in duce summo 


Invenies ?" 


Juvenal, Sat. x. 


" The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by 


the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincial* 


cl Gaul ; his moral virtues, and military talents 


were loudly celebrated ; and those who derived any 
n prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity 

* * * * 


private benefit from his government announced 

• * * * 


******** 
Bv *his shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between 


an Emperor and an Exile, till ." — Gibbon's Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220 


T is done — but yesterday a King ! 


The Desolator desolate ! 


And arm'd with Kings to strive — 


The Victor overthrown ! 


jwid now thou art a nameless thing : 


The Arbiter of others' fate 


So abject — yet alive ' 


A Suppliant for his own ! 


Is this the man of thousand thrones, 


Is it some yet imperial hope, 


Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones, 


That with such change can calmly copef 


And can he thus survive ? 


Or dread of death alone ? 


Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, 


To die a prince — or live a slave — 


Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 


Thy choice is most ignobly brave ! 


Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind 


He who of old would rend the oak, 


Who bow'd so low the knee ? 


Dream'd not of the rebound ; 


By gazing on thyself grown blind, 


Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke- 


Thou taught'st the rest to see. 


Alone — how look'd he round ? 


With might unquestion'd, — power to save, — 


Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, 


Thine only gift hath been the grave, 


An equal deed hast done at length, 


To those that worshipp'd thee ; 


And darker fate hast found : 


Nor till thy fall could mortals guess 


He fell, the forest prowlers' prey; 


Ambition's less than littleness ! 


But thou must eat thy heart away! 


Thanks for that lesson — it will teach 


The Roman 3 , when his burning heart 


To after-warrior i more, 


Was slaked with blood of Rome, 


Than high Philosophy can preach, 


Threw clown the dagger — dared depart. 


And vainly preach'd before. 


In savage grandeur, home — 


hat spell upon the minds of men 


He dared depart in utter scorn 


Breaks never to unite again, 


Of men that such a yoke had borne, 


lhat led them to adore 


Yet left him such a doom ! 


Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 


His only glory was that hour 


With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 


Of self-upheld abandon'd power. 


The triumph, and the vanity, 


The Spaniard, when the lust of sway 


The rapture of the strife 2 — 


Had lost its quickening speil, 


The earthquake voice of Victory 


Cast crowns for rosaries away, 


To thee the breath of life ; 


An empire for a cell ; 


The sword, the sceptre, arid that sway 


A strict accountant of his beads, 


Which man seem'd made but to obey, 


A subtle disputant on creeds, 


Wherewith renown was rife — 


His dotage trifled well : 


All quell'd ! — Dark Spirit ! what must be 


Vet better had he neither known 


The madness of thy memory ! 


A bigot's slirine, nor despot's throne. 



198 



ODE TO NAPOLEN BUONAPARTE. 



But thou — from thy reluctant hand 

The thunderbolt is wrung — 
Too late thou leav'st the high command 

To which thy weakness clung ; 
All Evil Spirit as thou art, 
It is enough to grieve the heart 

To see thine own unstrung ; 
To think that God's fair world hath been 
The footstool of a thing so mean ; 

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, 

Who thus can hoard his own ! 
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb, 

And thank 'd him for a throne ! 
Fair Freedom ! we may hold thee dear. 
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear 

In humblest guise have shown. 
Oh ! ne'er may tyrant leave behind 
A brighter name to lure mankind ! 

Thine evil deeds are writ in gcre, 

Nor written thus in vain — 
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, 

Or deepen every stain : 
If thou hadst died as honour dies, 
Some new Napoleon might arise, 

To shame the world again — 
But who would soar the solar height, 
To set in such a starless night ? 

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust 

Is vile as vulgar clay ; 
Thy scales, Mortality! are just 

To all that pass away : 
But yet methought the living great 
Some higher sparks should animate, 

To dazzle and dismay : 
Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth 
Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. 

And she, proud Austria's mournful tlower, 

Thy still imperial bride ; 
How bears her breast the torturing hour? 

Still clings she to thy side ? 
Must she too bend, must she too share 
Thy late repentance, long despair, 

Thou throneless Homicide ? 
If still she loves thee, hoard that gem ; 
Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem! 4 

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, 

And gaze upon the sea ; 
That element may meet thy smile — 

It ne'er was ruled by thee ! 



Or trace with thine all idle hand, 
In loitering mood upon the sand, 

That Earth is now as free ! 
That Corinth's pedagogue 5 hath now 
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. 

Thou Timour ! in his capti ve's cage ° 
What thoughts will there be thine, 
While brooding in thy prison'd rage ? 
But one — " The world was mine !" 
Unless, like he of Babylon, 
All sense is with thy sceptre gone, 

Life will not long con tine 
That spirit pour'd so widely forth — 
So long obey'd — so little worth ! 

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,'' 

Wilt thou withstand the shock ? 
And share with him, the unforgiven, 

His vulture and his rock ! 
Foredoom'd by God — by man accurst, 
And that last act, though not thy worst, 

The very Fiend's arch mock ; 8 
He in his fall preserved his pride, 
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died ! 

There was a day — there was an hour, 

While earth was Gaul's — Gaul thine— 
When that immeasurable power 

Unsated to resign 
Had been an act of purer fame, 
Than gathers round Marengo's name, 

And gilded thy decline, 
Through the long twilight of all time, 
Despite some passing clouds of crime. 

But thou forsooth must be a king, 

And don the purple v^t, — 
As if that foolish robe could wring 

Remembrance from thy breast. 
Where is that faded garment ? where 
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, 

The star — the string — the crest? 
Vain froward child of empire ! say, 
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away ? 

Where may the wearied eye repose, 

When gazing on the Great ; 
Where neither guilty glory glows, 

Nor despicable state ? 
Yes — one — the first — the last — the bestr- 
The Cincinnatus of the West, 

Whom envy dared not hate, 
Bequeath the name of Washington, 
To make man blush there was but On« 



%\)t Curse of JHmerba. 



" Pallas te hoc vultcft, r *as 

Immolat, et poenara scelerato ex sanguine sumit." 

Mneid, lib.xii. 



Athens, Capuchin Convent, March 17, 1811. 

8?,ow sinks, more lovely ere his race be run, 
Along Morea's hills the setting sun ; 
Not, as in northern climes, obscurely bright, 
But one unclouded blaze of living light; 
O'er the hush'd deep the yellow beam he throws, 
Gilds the green wave that trembles as it glows ; 
On old JLgina's rock and Hydra's isle 
The god of gladness sheds his parting smile ; 
O'er his own regions lingering Joves to shine, 
Though there his altars are no more divine. 
Descending fast, the mountain-shadows kiss 
1'hy glorious gulf, unconquer'd Salamis ! 
Their azure arches through the long expanse, 
More deeply purpled, meet his mellowing glance, 
And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, 
Mark his gay course, and own the hues of heaven; 
Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, 
Behind his Delphian rock he sinks to sleep. 

On such an eve his palest beam he cast 
When, Athens ! here thy wisest look'd his last. 
Kow watch'd thy better sons his farewell ray, 
That closed their murder'd sage's 2 latest day ! 
Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill, 
The precious hour of parting lingers still ; 
But sad his light to agonising eyes, 
And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes; 
GJoom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, 
The land where Phoebus never frown'd before ; 
But ere he sunk below Cithreron's head, 
The cup of woe was quaff d — the spirit fled; 
The soul of him that scoru'd to fear or fly, 
Who lived and died as nine can live or die. 

But, lo ! from high Hymettus to the plain 
The queen of night asserts her silent reign; 3 
No murky vapour, herald of the storm, 
Hides her fair face, or girds her glowing fonn. 



With cornice glimmering as the ir .->onbeao.i 

play, 
There the white column greets her g/aufm 
And bright around, with quivering beams beset, 
Her emblem sparkles o'er the minaret: 
The groves of olive scatter'd dark and wide, 
Where meek Cephisus sheds his scanty tide, 
The cypress saddening by the sacred mosque, 
The gleaming turret of the gay kiosk, 4 
And sad and sombre mid the holy calm, 
Near Theseus' fane, yon solitary palm ; 
All, tinged with varied hues, arrest the eye ; 
And dull were his that pass'd them heedless by. 

Again the yEgean, heard no more afar, 
Lulls his chafed breast from elemental war ; 
Again his waves in milder tints unfold 
Their long expanse of sapphire and of gold, 
Mix'd with the shades of many a distant isle, 
That frown, where gentler ocean deigns to smile. 

As thus, within the walls of Pallas' fane, 
I mark'd the 'beauties of the land and main, 
Aione, and friendless, on the magic shore, 
Whose arts and arms but live in poets' lore; 
Oft as the matchless dome I turn'd to scan, 
Sacred to gods, but not secure from man, 
The past return'd, the present seem'd to cease 
And Glory knew no clime beyond her Greece ! 

Hours roll'd along, and Dian's orb on liigb 
Had gain'd the centre of her softest sky ; 
And yet unwearied still my footsteps trod 
O'er the vain shrine of many a vanish'd god 
But chiefly, Pallas! thine; when Hecate's glar« 
Check'd by thy columns, fell more sadly fail 
O'er the chill marble, where the startling treat* 
Thrills the lone heart like echoes from the dead. 



200 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



Long had I mused, and treasured every trace 
The wreck of Greece recorded of her race, 
When, lo ! a j>ant form before me strode, 
And Pallas hail'd me in her own abode ! 

Yes, 'twas Minerva's self; but, ah! how 

changed 
Since o'er the Dardan field in arms she ranged! 
Not such as erst, by her divine command, 
Her form appear'd from Phidias' plastic hand : 
G me were the terrors of her awful brow, 
Her idle aegis bore no Gorgon now ; 
Her helm was dinted, and the broken lance 
Seem'd weak and shaftless e'en to mortal glance, 
The olive branch, which still she deign'd to clasp. 
Shrunk from her touch, and wither d in her 

grasp ; 
And, ah ! though still the brightest of the sky, 
Celestial tears bedimm'd her large blue eye ; 
Round the rent casque her owlet circled slow, 
And mourn'd his mistress with a shriek of woe ! 

"Mortal!" — 'twas thus she spake — "that 

blush of shame 
Proclaims thee Briton, once a noble name; 
First of the mighty, foremost of the free, 
Now honour'd less by ail, and least by me : 
Chief of thy foes shall Pallas still be found. 
Seek'st thou the cause of loathing? — look 

around. 
Lo ! here, despite of war and wasting fire, 
I saw successive tyrannies expire. 
'Scaped from the ravage of the Turk and Goth ,5 
Thy country sends a spoiler worse than both. 
Survey this vacant, violated fane ; 
Recount the relics torn that yet remain: 
These Cecrops placed, this Pericles adorn' d, 6 
That Adrian rear'd when drooping Science 

mourn'd. 
What more I owe let gratitude attest — 
Know, Alaric and Elgin did the rest. 
That all may learn from whence the plunderer 

came, 
The insulted wall sustains his hated name : 
For Elgin's fame thus grateful Pallas pleads, 
Kelow, his name— ~above, behold his deeds! 
H? ever hail'd with equal honour here 
The Gothic monarch and the Pictish peer: 
Arms gave the first his right, the last had none, 
But basely stole what less barbarians won. 
So when the lion quits his fell repast, 
Next prowls the wolf, the filthy jackal last: 
Flesh,limbs,and blood the former make their own, 
The last poor b-ute securely gnaws the bone. 
Yet still the rods are just, and crimes are cross'd: 
See here \v.iM Elgin won, and what he lost! 



Another name with his pollutes my shnne : 
Behold where Dian's beams disdain to shine 
Some retribution still might Pallas claim, 
When Venus half avenged Minerva's shame." 

She ceased awhile, and thus I dared reply 
To soothe the vengeance kindling in her eye 
" Daughter of Jove ! in Britain's injured name, 
A true-born Briton may the deed disclaim. 
Frown not on E ngland ; E ngland owns him not 
Athena, no ! thy plunderer was a Scot. 
Ask* st thou the difference? From fair Phyle'g 

towers 
Survey Bceotia; — Caledonia's ours. 
And well I know within that bastard land 8 
Hath Wisdom's goddess never held command , 
A barren soil, where Nature's germs, confined 
To stern sterility, can stint the mind ; 
Whose thistle well betrays the niggard earth, 
Emblem of all to whom the land gives birth ; 
P^ach genial influence nurtured to resist; 
A land of meanness, sophistry, and mist. 
E ach bneeze from foggy mount and marshy p*ain 
Dilutes with drivel every drizzly brain, 
Till, burst atlength, each watery head o'erriows, 
Foul as their soil, and frigid as their snows. 
Then thousand schemes of petulance and pride 
Despatch her scheming children far and wide 
Some east, some west, some every where bul 

north, 
In quest of lawless gain, they issue forth. 
And thus — accursed be the day and year: — 
She sent a Pict to play the felon here. 
Yet Caledonia claims some native worth, 
As dull Bceotia gave a Pindar birth ; 
So may her few, the letter'd and the brave, 
Bound to no clime, and victors of the grave 
Shake off the sordid dust of such a land, 
And shine like children of a happier strand ; 
As once, of yore, in some obnoxious place, 
Tennames(iffound)hadsavedawretchedrace.' 

" Mortal ! " the blue-eyed maid resumed 
" once more 
Bear back my mandate to thy native shore. 
Though fallen, alas ! this vengeance yet is mine 
To turn my counsels far from lands like thine 
Hear then in silence Pallas' stern behest; 
Hear and believe, for Time will tell the rest 

'• First on the head of him who did thisdeee 
My curse shall light, — on him and all his seed 
Without one spark of intellectual fire, 
Be all the sons as senseless as the sire : 
If one with wit the parent brood disgrace. 
Believe him bastard of a brighter race: 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



201 



Still with his hireling artists let hirn prate, 
And Folly's praise repay for Wisdom's hate ; 
Long of their patron's gusto let them tell, 
Whose noblest, native gusto is — to sell : 
l'o sell, and make — may Shame record the 

day ! — 
I ne state receiver of his pilfer'd prey. 9 
\1 3antime, the nattering, feeble dotard, West, 
Europe's worst dauber, and poor Britain's best, 
With palsied hand shall turn each model o'er 
Vn-) own himself an infant of fourscore.' 
:te all the bruisers cull'd from all St.- Giles, 
That art and nature may compare their styles; 
While brawny brutes in stupid wonder stare, 
Ami marvel at his lordship's ' stone shop' 1 • there. 
Round the throng'd gate shall sauntering cox- 
combs creep. 
To lounge and lucubrate, u. orate and peep ; 
While many a languid maid, with longing sigh, 
On giant statues casts the curious eye ; 
The room with transient glance appears to skim, 
i'et marks the mighty back and length of limb ; 
Mourns o'er the difference of now and then; 
Exclaims, 'These Greeks indeed were prober 

men !' 
Draws sly comparisons of tkesi with thos?, 
And envies Lai's all her Attic beaux. 
When shall a modern maid have swains like 

these ! 
Alas ! Sir Harry is no Hercules ! 
And last of all, amidst the gaping crew. 
Some calm spectator, as he takes his view, 
In silent indignation mix'd with grief, 
Admires the plunder, but abhors the thief. 12 
Oh, loathed in life, nor pardon'd in the dust, 
May hate pursue his sacrilegious las* 
Link'd with the fool that fired the Ephesian 

dome, 
Shall vengeance follow far beyond the tomb, 
And Eratostratus and Elgin shine 
In many a branding page and burning line; 
Alike reserved for aye to stand accursed, 
Perchance the second blacker than the first. 

" So let him stand, through ages yet unborn. 
Fix'd statue on the pedestal of Scorn ; 
Though not for him alone revenue shall wait, 
But fits thy country for her coming fate : 
Hers were the deeds that taught her lawless son 
To do what oft Britannia's self had done. 
Look to the Baltic — blazing from afar, 
Your old ally yet mourns perfidious war. 13 
Not to such deeds did Pallas lend her aid, 
Or break the compact which herself had made; 
Far from such councils, from the faithless field 
She fled — but left behind her Gorgon shield: 



A fatal gift, that turn'd your friends io stone. 
And left lost Albion hated and alone. 

" Look to the East, where Ganges' swarthj 
race 
Shall shake your tyrant empire to its base , 
Lo ! there Rebellion rears her ghastly head, 
And glares the Nemesis of native dead ; 
Till Indus rolls a deep purpureal flood, 
And claims his long arrear of northern blood. 
So raav ve perish ! — Pallas, when she gave 
Your free-born rights, forbade ye to enslave. 

' Look on your Spain ! — she clasps the han. 

she hates, [gates. 

But bohlly clasps, and thrusts you from hei 
Bear witness, bright Barossa : thou canst tell 
Whose were the sons that bravely fought ant 

fell. 
But Lusitania, kind and dear ally. 
Can spare a few to fight, and sometimes fly. 
Oh glorious field ! by Famine fiercely won, 
The Gaul retires for once, and all is done ! 
But when did Pallas teach, that one retreat 
Retrieved three long olympiads of defeat ? 

" Look last at home — ye love not to look 
there ; 
On the grim smile of comfortless despair r 
Your city saddens : loud though Revel howls 
Here Famine faints,and yonder Rapine prowls 
See all alike of more or less bereft ; 
No misers tremble when there 's nothing left 
' Blest paper credit ' 14 ; who shall dare to sing ? 
It clogs like lead Corruj '.ions weary wing. 
Yet Pallas pluck'd each premier by the ear, 
Who gods and men alike disdain' d to hear ; 
But one, repentant o'er a bankrupt state, 
On Paiias calls, — but calls, alas ; too late 
Then raves for * * ; to that Mentor bends, 
Though he and Pallas never yet were friends* 
Him senates hear, whom never yet they heard, 
Contemptuous once, and now no less absurd. 
So, once of yore, each reasonable frog 
Svvore faith and fealty to his sovereign ' log.' 
Thus hail'd your riders their patrician clod, 
As Egypt, chose an onion for a god. 

" Now fare ye well! enjoy your little hour; 
Go, grasp the shadow of your vanish 'd power ; 
Gloss o'er the failure of each fondest scheme; 
Yuur strength a name, your bloated wealth a 

dream. 
Gone is that gold, the marvel of mankind, 
And pirates barter all that's left behind. 15 
No more the hirelings, purchased near and far. 
Crowd to the ranks of mercenary war. 



202 



THE CURSE OF MINERVA. 



The idle merchant on the useless quay 
Droops o'er the bales no bark may bear away ; 
Or, back returning, sees rejected stores 
Rot piecemeal ou his own encumber'd shores : 
The starved mecnanic breaks his rusting loom, 
And desperate mans him 'gainst the coming 

doom. 
Then in the senate of your sinking state 
Show me the man whose counsels may have 

weight. [command ; 

Vain is each voice where tones could once 
E'en factions cease to charm a factious land : 
Yet jarring sects convulse a sister isle, 
And light with maddening hands the mutual 

pile. 

" 'T is done, 't is past, since Pallas warns in 

vain ; 
The Furies seize her abdicated reign : 
Wide o'er the realm they wave their kindling 

brands, 
And wring her vitals with their fiery hands. 
But one convulsive struggle still remains, 
And Gaul shall weep ere Albion wear her chains. 
The banner'd pomp of war, the glittering 

files, 
O'er whose gay trappings stern Bellona smiles; 



Tlie brazen trump, the spirit-stirring drum, 
That bid the foe defiance ere they come ; 
The hero bounding at his country's call, 
The glorious death that consecrates his fall, 
Swell the young heart with visionary charms, 
And bid it antedate the joys of arms. 
But know, a lesson you may yet be taught, 
With death alone are laurels cheaply bought 
Not in the conflict Havoc seeks delight, 
His day of mercy is the day of fight. 
But when the field is fought, the battle won. 
Though drench'd with gore, his woes are hi* 

begun : 
His deeper deeds as yet ye know by name ; 
The slaughter'd peasant and the ravish'd dame. 
The rifled mansion and the foe-reap'd field, 
111 suit with souls at home, untaught to yield. 
Say with what eye along the distant down 
Would flying burghers mark the blazing town? 
How view the column of ascending flames 
Shake his red shadow o'er the startled Thames' 
Nay, frown not, Albion ! for the torch was thin« 
That lit such pyres from Tagus to the Rhine: 
Now should they burst on thy devoted coast, 
Go, ask thy bosom who deserves them most. 
The law of heaven and earth is life for lift-, 
And she who raised, in vain regrets, the strife' 



Cljc Bream/ 



Our life is twol .Id : Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary bet veen the things misnamed 
Dtbtb and existence: Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality, 
And dreams in their developement have breath, 
And teais, and tortures, and the touch of joy ; 
They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
They do divide out being; they become 
A portion of ourselves as of our time, 
And look like heralds of eternity; 
They pass like spirits of the past, — they speak 
Like sibyls of the future; they have power — 
The tyranny of pleasure and of pain ; [will, 
They make us what we were not — what they 
And shake us with the vision that's gone by, 
The dread of vanish'd shadows — Are they so? 
[s not the past all shadow? What are they? 
Creations of the mind? — The mind can make 
Substance, and people planets of its own 
With beings brighter thanhave been, and give 
A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. 
f would recall a vision which I dream'd 
Perchance in sleep — for in itself a thought 
A slumbering thought, is capahle of years, 
And curdles a long life into one hour. 



I saw two beings in the hues of youth 
Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, 
Green and of mild declivity, the last 
As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, 
Save that there was no sea to lave its base, 
But a most living landscape, and the wave 
Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men 
Scatter 'd at intervals, and wreathing smoke 
Arising from such rustic roofs ; — the hill 
Was crown'd with a peculiar diadem 
Of trees, in circular array, so fix'd, 
Not by the sport of nature, but of man : 
These two, a maiden and a youth, were there 
Gazing — the one on all that was beneath 
Fair as herself — but the boy gazed on her; 
And both were young, and one was beautiful: 



And both were young — yet not alike in youtl 

As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, 
The maid was on the eve of womanhood ; 
The boy had fewer summers, but his heart 
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye 
There was but one beloved face on earth, 
And that was shining on him ; he had look'd 
Upon it till it could not pass away ; 
He had no breath, no being, but in hers: 
She was his voice ; he did not speak to her, 
But trembled on her words : she was his sight, 
For his eye follow'd hers, and saw with hers. 
Which colour'd all his objects : — he'had ceased 
To live within himself; she was his life, 
The ocean to the river of his thoughts, 
Which terminated all : upon a tone, 
A touch of hers, his blood would ebb sjn/ flow. 
And his cheek change tempestuously — his heart 
Unknowing of its cause of agony. 
But she in these fond feelings had no share: 
Her sighs were not for him ; to her he was 
Even as a brother — but no more ; 't was much, 
For brotherless she was, save in the name 
Her infant friendship had bestow'd on him ; 
Herself the solitary scion left 
Of a timc-honour'd race. — It was a name 
Which pleased him, and yet pleased him nol 
— and why? [loved 

Time taught him a deep answer — when sh« 
Another; even now she loved another, 
And on the summit of that hill she stood 
Looking afar if yet her lover's steed 
Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
There was an ar>.;ient mansion, and before 
Its walls there was a steed caparison 'd : 
Within an antique Oiatory stood 
The Boy of whom I spake ; — he was alone, 
And pale, and paring to and fro: anon 
He sate him down, and seized apen, and traced 
Words which I could not guess of; then he 
lean'd ['t were 

His bow'd head on frs hands, and shock h* 
With a convulsion — then arose again, 



204 



THE DREAM. 



And with his teeth and quivering hands did 

tear 
What ue had written, but he shed no tears. 
And he did calm himself, and fix his brow 
Into a kind of quiet: as he paused, 
The Lady of his love re-enter' d there ; 
She was "serene and smiling then, and yet 
She knew she was by him beloved, — she knew 
For quickly comes such knowledge, that his 

heart 
Was darken' d with her shadow, and she saw 
That he was wretched, but she saw not all. 2 
He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp 
He took her hand ; a moment o'er his face 
A tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced, and then it faded, as it came ; 
He dropp'd the hand he held, and with slow 

steps 
Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, 
For they did part with mutual smiles ; he pass'd 
From out the massy gate of that old Hall, 
And mounting on his steed he went his way ; 
And ne'er repass'd that hoary threshold more. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Boy was sprung to manhood : in the wilds 
Of fiery climes he made himself a home, 
And his Soul drank their sunbeams : he was 

girt 
With strange and dusky aspects ; he was not 
Himself like what he had been ; on the sea 
And on the shore he was a wanderer ; 
There was a mass of many images 
Crowded like waves upon me, but he was 
A part of ail ; and in the last he lay 
Reposing from the noontide sultriness, 
Couch'd among fallen columns, in the shade 
Of ruin'd walls that had survived the names 
Of those who rear'd them ; by his sleeping side 
Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds 
Were fasten'd near a fountain ; and a man 
Clad in a flowing garb did watch the while, 
While many of his tribe slumber'd around : 
A nd they were canopied by the blue sky, 
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, 
That God alone was to be seen in Heaven. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love was wed with One 
Who did not love her better : — in her home, 
A thousand leagues from his, — her native home, 
She dwelt, begirt with growing Infancy, 
Daughters and sons of Beauty, — but behold ! 



Upon her face there was the tint of grief, 
The settled shadow of an inward strife, 
And an unquiet drooping of the eye, 
As if its I'd were charged with unshed tears. 
What could her grief be ? — she had all &\.t 

loved, 
And he who had so loved her was not there 
To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, 
Or iil-repress'd affliction, her pure thoughts. 
What could her grief be? — she had loved hino 

not, 
Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved. 
Nor could he be a part of that which prey'd 
Upon her mind — a spectre of the past. 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was return 'd. — I saw him stand 
Before an Altar — with a gentle bride; 
Her face was fair.but was not that which made 
The Starlight of his Boyhood ; — as he stood 
Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came 
The selfsame aspect, and the quivering shock 
That in the antique Oratory shook 
His bosom in its solitude ; and then — 
As in that hour — a moment o'er his face 
The tablet of unutterable thoughts 
Was traced — and then it faded as it came, 
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke 
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words 
And all things reel'd around him ; he could see 
Not that which was, nor that which should 

have been — 
But the old mansion, and the accustom'dhall, 
And the remember'd chambers, and the place, 
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, 
All things pertaining to that place and hour, 
And her who was his destiny, came back 
And thrust themselves between him and the 

light: 
What business had they there at such a time? 3 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Lady of his love ; — Oh ! she was changed, 
As by the sickness of the soul ; her mind 
Had wander'd from its dwelling, and her eyes, 
They had not their own lustre, but the look 
Which is not of the earth; she was become 
The queen of a fantastic realm ; her thoughts 
Were combinations of disjointed things ; 
And forms impalpable and unperceived 
Of others' sight familiar were to hers. 
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise 
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance 



THE DREAM. 



205 



Of melancholy is a fearful gift ; 
Whal is it but the telescope of truth ? 
Which strips the distance of its fantasies 
And brings life near in utter nakedness, 
Making the cold reality too real ! 



A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. 
The Wanderer was alone as heretofore, 
The beings which surrounded him were gone, 
Or were at war with him ; he was a mark 
For blight and desolation, compass'd round 
With Hatred and Contention ; Pain was mix'd 
In all which was served up to him, until, 
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,* 
He fed on poisons, and they had no power, 
But were a kind of nutriment ; he lived 
Through that which had beec death to many 



And made him friends of mountains . with thf 

stars 
And the quick Spirit of the Universe 
He held his dialogues ! and they did teach 
To him the magic of their mysteries ; 
To him the book of Night was open'd wide, 
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd » 
A marvel and a secret — Be it so. 



IX. 



My dream was past ; it had no furthe' change 

It was of a strange order, that the doom 

Of these two creatures should be thus traced 

out 
Almost like a reality — the onj 
To end in madness — both in misery. 

Juijr, isafx 



Clje lament of Casso, 



ADVERTISMENT. 

At Ferrara, in the Library, are preserved the 
original MSS. of Tasso's Gierusalemme and 
of Guarini's Pastor Fido, with letters of Tasso, 
one from Titian to Ariosto, and the inkstand 
and chair, the tomb and the house, of the 
latter. But, as misfortune has a greater in- 
terest for posterity, and little or none for the 
cotemporary, the cell where Tasso was con- 
fined in the hospital of St. Anna attracts a 
more fixed attention than the residence or the 
monument of Ariosto — at least it had this effect 
on me. There are two inscriptions, one on 
the outer gate, the second over the cell itself, 
inviting, unnecessarily, the wonder and the 
indignation of the spectator. Ferrara is much 
decayed, and depopulated : the castle still exists 
entire; and I saw the court where Parisina 
and Hugo were beheaded, according to the 
annal of Gibbon. l 



W&t Hament of ^asso. 



Long years ! — It tries the thrilling frame to bear 
And eagle-spirit of a child of Song — 
Long years of outrage, calumny, and wrong; 
Imputed madness, prison'd solitude, 
And the mind's canker in its savage mood, 
When the impatient thirst of light and air 
Parches the heart: and the abhorred grate, 
M airing the sunbeams with its hideous shade, 
Works through the throbbing eyeball to the 

brain, 
With a hot sense of heaviness and pain; 
And bare, at once, Captivity display'd 
Stands scoffing through the never-open'd gate, 
Which nothing through its bars admits, save 

day, 
And tasteless food, which I have eat alone 
Till its unsocial bitterness is gone ; 
4.nii I can banquet like a beast of prey, 



Sullen and lonely, couching in the cave 
Which is my lair, and — it may be — my grave. 
All this hath somewhat worn me. and ma\ 

wear, 
But must be borne. I stoop not to dearoii ; 
For I have battled with mine agony, 
And made me wings wherewith to overfly 
The narrow circus of my dungeon wall, 
And freed the Holy Sepulchre from thrall; 
And revell'd among men and things divine 
And pour'd my spirit over Palestine, 
In honour of the sacred war for Him, 
The God who was on earth and is in heaven, 
For he has strengthen'd me in heart and limb. 
That through this sufferance I might be for- 
given, 
I have employ'd my penance to record 
How Salem's shrine was won and how adored- 



But this is o'er — my pleasant task is done:-— 
My long sustaining friend of many years! 
If I do blot thy final page with tears, 
Know, that my sorrows have wrung from w* 

none. 
But thou, my young creation! my soul's child 
Which ever playing round me came and smiled 
And woo'd me from myself with thy sweet sight 
Thou too art gone — and so is my delight: 
And therefore do I weep and inly bleed 
With this last bruise upon a broken reed. 
Thou too art ended — what is left me now? 
For I have anguish yet to bear — and how? 
I know not that — but in the innate force, 
Of my own spirit shall be found resource. 
I have not sunk, for I had no remorse, 
Nor cause for such: they call'd me mad — an* 

why? 
Oh Leonora! wilt not thou reply? 
1 was indeed delirious in my heart 
To lift my love so lofty as thou ait; 
But still my frenzy was not of the mind; 
I knew my fault, and feel my punishment 
Not less because I suffer it unbent. 
That thou wert beautiful, and I not blind. 
Hath been the sin which shuts me from man- 

kind; 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



207 



But let them go, or torture as they will, 

My heart can multiply thine image still ; 

Successful love may sate itself away, 

The wretched are the faithful ; 't is their fate 

.To have all feeling save the one decay, 

And every passion into one dilate, 

As lapid rivers into ocean pom; 

Bu; ours is fathomless, and hath no shore. 



Above nnj, hark! the long and maniac cry 
Of minds and bodies in captivity. 
And hark ! the lash and the increasing howl, 
And the half-inarticulate blasphemy! 
There be some here with worse than frenzy foul. 
Some who do still goad on the o'er-labour'd mind, 
And dim the little light that's left behind 
With needless torture, as their tyrant will 
Is wound up to the lust of doing ill: 3 
With these and with their victims am I class'd, 
'Mid sounds and sights like these long years 
have pass'd; [close: 

'Mid sights and soimds like these my life may 
So let it be — for then I shall repose. 



I Lave been patient, let me be so yet; 

I had forgotten half I would forget. 

But it revives — Oh! would it were my lot 

To be forgetful as I am forgot! — 

Feel I not wroth with those who bade me dwell 

Li this vast lazar-house of many woes? 

Where laughter is not mirth, nor thought the 

mind, 
Kor words a language, nor ev'n men mankind, 
Where cries reply to curses, shrieks to blows, 
And each is tortured in his separate hell — 
For we are crowded in our solitudes — 
Many, but each divided by the wall, 
Which echoes Madness in her babbling 
moods; — [call — 

While all can hear, none heed his neighbour's 
None ! save that One, the veriest wretch of all, 4 
Who was not made to be the mate of these, 
Nor bound between Distraction and Disease. 
Feel I not wroth with those who placed me here? 
Who have debased me in the minds of men. 
Debarring me the usage of my own , 
Blighting my life in best of its career, 
3randing my thoughts as things to shun and 

fear? 
Would I not pay them back these pangs again, 
^nd teach them inward Sorrow's stifled groan? 
The struggle to be calm, and cold distress, 
"Vhich undermines our Stoical suecess? 



No! — still too proud to bo vindictive — I 
Have pardon 'd princes' insults, and would die 
Yes, Sister of my Sovereign ! for thy sake 
I weed all bitterness from out my breast, 
It hath no business where tltou art a guest , 
Thy brother hates — but I can not detest ,■* 
Thou pitiest not — but I can not forsake. 



Look on a love which knows not to despair, 
But all unquench'd is still my better part, 
Dwelling deep in my shut and silent heart, 
As dwells the gather'd lightning in its cloud, 
Encompass'd with its dark and rolling shroud, 
Till struck, — forth flies the all-etherial dart ! 
And thus at tne collision of thy name 
The vivid thought still flashes through my frames 
And for a moment all things as they were 
Flit -by me ; — they are gone — I am the same. 
And yet my love without ambition grew ; 
I knew thy state, my station, and I knew 
A Princess was no lo» e-mate for a bard ; 
I told it not, I breathtd it not, it was 
Sufficient to itself, iti own reward ; 
And if my eyes revea''d it, they, alas ! 
Were punish'd by the silentness of tin ae, 
And yet I did not venture to repine. 
Thou wert to me a crystal-girded shrine ; 
Worshipp'd at holy distance, and aiovid 
Hallow'd and meekly k'ss'd the saintly ground i 
Not for thou wert a p incess, but that Love 
Had robed thee with & glory, and array'd 
Thy lineaments in beauty that dismay'd — 
Oh! not dismay'd — but awed, like One above 
And in that sweet severity there was 
A something which all softness did surpass — 
I know not how — thy genius master'd mine— 
My star stood still before thee : — if it were 
Presumptuous thus to lo<*e without design, 
That sad fatality hath enst me dear; 
But thou art dearest still, and I should be 
Fit for this cell, which wrongs me — bet fo» 

thee. 
The very love which lock'd me to my chain 
Hath lighten'd half its weight; and lor the 

rest, 
Though heavy, lent me vigour to sustain 
And look to thee with undivided breast, 
And foil the ingenuity of Pain. 7 

WL 

It is no marvel — from my very birth 

My soul was drunk with love, — which did 

pervade 
And mingle with whate'er I saw on earth; 
Of objects all iaaniinate I made 



208 



THE LAMENT OF TASSO. 



Idois. and out of wild and lonely flowers, 
And rocks, whereby they grew, a paradise, 
Where I did lay me down within the shade 
Of waving trees, and dream'd uncounted hours, 
Though 1 was chid for wandering ; and the 

Wise 
Shook their white aged heads o'er me. and said 
Of such materials wretched men were made, 
And such a truant boy would end in woe, 
And that the only lesson was a blow ; — 
And then they smote me, and I did not weep, 
But cursed them in my heart, and to my haunt 
.Return' d and wept alone, and dream'd again 
The visions which arise without a sleep. 
And with my years my soul began to pant 
With feelings of strange tumult and soft pain ; 
And the whole heart exhaled into One Want, 
But undefined and wandering, till the day 
I found the thing I sought — and that was thee ; 
And then I lost my being all to be 
A-bsorb'd in thine — the world was past away — 
Thou didst annihilate the earth to me ! 



loved all Solitude — but little thought 
To spend I know not what of life, remote 
"From all communion with existence, save 
The maniac and h» tyrant; — had I been 
Their fellow, many years ere this had seen 
My mind like theirs corrupted to its grave, 
But who hath ssen me writhe, or heard me 

rave? 
*'erchance in such a cell we suffer more 
Than the wreck'd sailor on his desert shore ; 
The world is all before him — mine is here, 
Scarce twice the space they must accord my 

bier. 
What though he perish, he may lift his eye 
Ami with a dying glance upbraid the sky — 
I will not raise my own in such reproof, 
Although 'tis clouded b;, my dungeon roof. 



Vet do I feel at times my mind decline, 
But with a sense of its decay : — I see 
Unwonted lights along my prison shine, 
And a strange demon, who is vexing me 
With pilfering pranks and petty pains, below 
The feeling of the healthful and the free ; 
But much to One, who long hath suffer'd so, 
Sickness of heart, and narrowness of place, 
And all that may be borne, or can debase. 
1 thought mine enemies had been but Man, 
But Spirits may be leagued with them — all 

Earth 
Abandons—Heaven forgets me ; — in the dearth 



Of such defence the Powers of Evil can, 
It may be, tempt me further, — and prevail 
Against the outworn creature they assail. 
Why in this furnace is my spirit proved 
Like steel in tempering fire? because I loved, 
Because I loved what not to love, and see, 
Was more or less than mortal, and than me. 



I once was quick in feeling — that is o'er ; — 
My scars are callous, or I should have dash'd 
My brain against these bars, as the sun flash 'd 
In mockery through them ; — If I bear ami bore 
The much I have recounted, and the more 
W T hich hath no words, — 'tis that I would noi 

die 
And sanction with self-slaughter the dull 
Which snared me here, and with tht bran ol 

shame 
Stamp Madness deep into my memory, 
And woo Compassion to a blighted name. 
Sealing the sentence which my foes proclaim 
No — it shall be immortal ! — and I make 
A future temple of my present cell, 
Which nations yet shall visit for my sake. 
While thou, Ferrara ! when no longer dw 11 
The ducal chiefs within thee, shalt fall do n 
And crumbling piecemeal view thy hearthlt*!- 

halls, 
A poet's wreath shall be thine only crown,— 
A poet's dungeon thy most far renown, 
Wiiile strangers wander o'er thy unpeopled 

walls! [shameci 

And thou, Leonora! — thou — who wert » 
That such as I could love — who blush'd %c 

hear [deai 

To less than monarchs that thou couldst be 
Go ! tell thy brother, that my heart, untamec 
By grief, years, weariness — and it may be 
A taint of that he would impute to me — 
From long infection of a den like this, 
Where the mind rots congenial with the abyss 
Adores thee still ; — and add — that when tht 

towers 
And battlements which guard his joyous hou 
Of banquet, dance, and revel, are forgot, 
Or left untended in a dull repose, 
This — this — shall be a consecrated spot ! 
But thou — when all that Birth and Beauty 

throws 
Of magic round thee is extinct — shalt have 
One half the laurel which o'ershades my grave. 
No power in death can tear our names apart, 
As none in life could rend the<- from my heart 
Yes, Leonora ! it shall be our fate 
To be entwined for ever — but too late ? 



€f)e Wision oi $t%ment, 

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUSJ 

•UOOBSTKD EV THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF " WAT TYLEB.' 



A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel! 
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word." 



PREFACE. 

[t hath been wisely said, that " One fool makes 
mai%-;" and it hath been poetically observed, 

" That fools rush in where angels fear to tread." 

Pope. 

If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he 
had no business, and where he never was be- 
fore, and never will be again, the following 
poem would not have been written. It is not 
impossible that it may be as good as his own, 
seeing that it cannot, by any species of stupidity, 
natural or acquired, be worse. The gross flat- 
tery, the dull impudence, the renegado intole- 
rance and impious cant, of the poem by the 
author of " Wat Tyler," are something so stu- 
pendous as to form the sublime of himself — 
containing the quintessence of his own attri- 
butes. 

So much for his poem — a word on his pre 
face. In this preface it has pleased the mag 
nanimous Laureate to draw the picture of a 
supposed " Satanic School," the which he doth 
recommend to the notice of the legislature ; 
thereby adding to his other laurels the ambi- 
tion of those of an informer. If there exists 
any where, excepting in his imagination, such 
a School, is he not sufficiently armed against 
it by his own intense vanity ? The truth is, 
that there are certain writers whom Mr. S. 
imagines, like Scrub, to have " talked of him ; 
for they laughed consumedly." 

I think I know enough of most of the 
wiiters to whom he is supposed to allude, to 
assert, that they, in their individual capacities, 
have done more good, in the charities of life, 
to their fellow-creatures in any one year, than 
Mr. Southey has done harm to himself by his 
absurdities in his whole life; and this is say- 
ing a great deal. But I have a few questions 
to ask. 

15 



lstly, Is Mr. Southey the author of " Wal 

Tyler?" 

2dly, Was he not refused a remedy at law 
,y the highest judge of his beloved England, 
Decause it was a blasphemous and seditious 
publication ?2 

3dly, Washe not entitled by William Smith, 
»n full parliament, " a rancorous renegado ?"3 

4thly, Is he not poet laureate, with his own 
lines on Martin the regicide staring him in 
the face? 4 

And, 5thly, Putting the four preceding items 
together, with what conscience dare he call 
the attention of the laws to the publications of 
others, be they what they may ? 

I say nothing of the cowardice of such a 
proceeding; its meanness speaks for itself; 
but I wish to touch upon the motive, which is 
neither more nor less than that Mr. S. has 
been laughed at a little in some recent publi- 
cations, as he was of yore in the " Anti-;aco 
bin" by his present patrons. 5 Hence all this 
" skimble-scamble stuff" about " Satanic," and 
so forth. However, it is worthy of him — 
" qualis ab incepto." 

If there is any thing obnoxious to the poli 
tical opinions of a portion of the public in th« 
following poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. 
He might have written hexameters, as he has 
written every thing else, for aught that t' it- 
writer cared — had they been upon another 
subject. But to attempt to canonise a monarch, 
who, whatever were his household virtues, was 
neither a successful nor a patriot king, — inas 
much as several years of his reign passed in 
war with America and Ireland, to say nothing 
of the aggression upon France, — like all othei 
exaggeration, necessarily begets opposition 
In whatever manner he may be spoken of irl 
this new " Vision," his public career will no, 
w more favourably transmitted by Lzsxovy 



210 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



Of his private virtues (although a little expen- 
sive to the nation) there can be no doubt. 

"With regard to the supernatural personages 
treated of, I can only say that I know as much 
about them, and (as an honest man) have a 
oetter right to talk of them, than Robert 
Southey. I have also treated them more tole- 
rantly. The way in which that poor insane 
creature, the Laureate, deals about his judg- 
ments in the next world, is like his own judg- 
ment in this. If it was not completely ludi- 
crous, it would be something worse. I don't 
think that there is much more to say at pre- 
sent. 

QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS. 

P. S. — It is possible that some readers may 
object, in these objectionable times, to the 
freedom with which saints, angels, and spi- 
ritual persons discourse in this " Vision." 
But, for precedents upon such points, I must 
refer him to Fielding's " Journey from this 
World to the next," and to the Visions of my- 
self, the said Quevedo, in Spanish or trans- 
lated. The reader is also requested to observe, 
.hat no doctrinal tenets are insisted upon or 
discussed ; that the person of the Deity is 
carefully withheld from sight, which is more 
than can be said for the Laureate, who hath 
thought proper to make him talk, not " like a 
school divine," but like the unscholariike Mr. 
Southey. The whole action passes on the 
outside of heaven; and Chaucer's Wife of 
Bath, Pulci's Morgante Maggiore, Swift's Tale 
of a Tub, and the other works above referred 
to, are cases in point of the freedom with 
which saints, &c. may be permitted to con- 
verse in works not intended to be serious. 

Q. R. 

*** Mr. Southey being, as he says, a good 
Christian and vindictive, threatens, I under- 
stand, a reply to this our answer. It is to 
be hoped that his visionary faculties will in 
the mean time have acquired a little more 
judgment, properly so called: otherwise he 
will get himself into new dilemmas. These 
apostate jacobins furnish rich rejoinders. Let 
him take a specimen. Mr. Southey laudeth 
grievously " one Mr. Landor," who cultivates 
much private renown in the shape of Latin 
verses ; and not long ago, the poet laureate 
dedicated to him, it a.>peareth, one of his 
fugitive lyrics, upon the strength of a poem 
called Gebir. Who could suppose, that in 
ibis same Gebir the aforesaid Savage Landor 6 



(for such is his grim cognome-) putteth intc 
the infernal regions no less a person than the 
hero of his friend Mr. Southey's heaven, — 
yea, even George the Third ! See also how 
personal Savage becometh, when he hath * 
mind. The following is his portrait of oui 
late gracious sovereign : — 

(Prince Gebir having descended into the infernal 
regions, the shades of his royal ancestors are, 
at his request, called up to his view ; and he ex- 
claims to his ghostly guide; — 

" Aroar, what wretch that nearest us? what wretch 
Is that with eyebrows white and slanting brow 
Listen ! him yonder, who, bound down supine, 
Shrinks yelling from that sword there, engine- 
hung. 
He too amongst my ancestors! I hate 
The despot, but the dastard I despise. 
Was he our countryman?" 

"Alas, O king! 
Iberia bore him, but the breed accurst 
Inclement winds blew blightingfrom north-east 
" He was a warrior then, nor fear'd the gods?* 
" Gebir, he fear'd the demons, not the gods, 
Though them indeed his daily face adored; 
And was no warrior, yet the thousand lives 
Squander'd, as stones to exercise a sling, 
And the tame cruelty and cold caprice — 
Oh madness of mankind! address'd, adored!"— 
Gebir, p. 28. 

I omit noticing some edifying Ithyphallics 
of Savagius, wishing to keep the proper veil 
over them, if his grave but somewhat indiscreet 
worshipper will suffer it; but certainly these 
teachers of " great moral lessons " are apt to 
be found in strange company. 



OTje Ftston of gju&gnunt. 



Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate: 
His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, 

So little trouble had been given of late; 
Not that the place by any means was full, 

But since the Gallic era " eighty-eight " 
The devils had ta'en a longer, stronger pul\ 

And " a pull altogether," as they say 

At sea — which drew most souls another way. 



The angels all were singing out of tune, 
And hoarse with having little else to do, 

Excepting to wind up the sun and moon, 
Or curb a runaway young star or two, 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



211 



Or wild colt of a comet, which too soon 

Broke out of hounds o'er the ethereal blue, 
Splitting some planet with it.s playful tail, 
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale 

in. 
The guardian seraphs had retired on high. 

Finding their churges past all care below ; 
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky 

Save the recording angel's black bureau ; 
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply 

With such rapidity of vice and woe, 
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills, 
And yet was in arrear of human ills. 

IV. 

His business so augmented of late years, 

That he was forced, against his will no doubt, 
(Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers,) 

For some resource t/> turn himself about, 
And claim the help of his celestial peers, 

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out, 
By the increased demand for his remarks ; 
Six angels and twelve saints were named his 
clerks. 

v. 
This was ahandsozne board— at least for heaven; 

And yet they had even then enough to do, 
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven, 

So many kingdoms fitted up anew ; 
Each day too slew its thousands six or seven, 

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo, 
They threw their pens down in divine disgust — 
The page was so besmear'd with blood and dust. 

VI. 

This by the way ; t is not mine to record 
What angels shrink from: even the very devil 

On this occasion his own work abhorr d, 
So surfeited with the infernal revel: 

Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword, 
It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. 

(Here Satan's sole good work deserves inser- 
tion — 

T is, that he has both generals in reversion.) 

VII 

Let 's skip a few short years of hollow peace, 
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, 

And heaven none — they form the tyrant's lease, 
With nothing but new names subscribed 
upon't 

T will one day finish: meantime they increase, 

" With seven heads and ten horns," and all 

in front, [born 

Like Saint John's foretold beast ; but ours are 

Less formidable in the head than horn. 



VIII. 

In the first year of freedom's second dawn* 
Died George the Third ; although no tyrant 
one 

Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn 
Left him nor mental nor external sun: 

A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn 
A worse king never left a realm undone ! 

He died — but left his subjects still behind, 

One half as mad — and 't other no less blind 

IX. 

He di ed ! — his death made no great stir on earth . 

His burial made some pomp; there was 

profusion 

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth 

Of aught but tears— save those shed by 

collusion. [worth"; 

For these things may be bought at their true 

Of elegy there was the due infusion — 
Bought also, and the torches, cloaks, and 

banners, 
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, 



Form'd a sepulchral melodrame. Of all 
The fools who flock' d to swell or see the show 

Who cared about the corpse ? The funeral 
Made the attraction, and the black the woe 

There throbb'd not there a thought which 
pierced the pall ; 
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low 

It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold 

The rottenness of eighty years in gol»' 



So mix his body with the dust ! It might 
Return to what it must far sooner, were 

The natural compound left alone to fight 
Its way back into earth, and fire, and lir 

But the unnatural balsams merely blight 
What nature made him at his birth, as bare 

As the mere million's base unmummied clay — 

Yet all his spices but prolong decay 



He 'sdead — and upper earth with him has done 
He 's buried ; save the undertaker's bill, 

Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone 
For him, unless he left a German will : 

But where 's the proctor who will ask his son 
In whom his qualities are reigning still, 

Except that household virtue, most uncommon 

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. 
v 2 



12 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



' God save the king ! " It is a large economy 
In God to save the like; but if he will 

Be saving, all the better; for not one am I 
Cf those who think damnation better still: 

I hardly know too if not quite alone am I 
In this small hope of bettering future ill 

By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, 

7he eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction. 



I know this is unpopular ; I know 

'T is blasphemous ; I know one maybe damn'd 
For hoping no one else may e'er be so ; 

I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm'd 
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow ; 

I know that, all save England's church have 
shamm'd, 
And that the other twice two hundred churches 
And synagogues have made a damn'd bad pur- 
chase. 

xv. 
God help us all! God help me too! I am, 

God knows, as helpless us the devil can wish, 
And not a whit more difficult to damn, 

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish. 
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; 

Not that I 'm fit for such a noble dish, 
As one day will be that immortal fry 
Of almost every body born to die. 

xvi. 
Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, 

And nodded o'er his keys ; when, lo ! there 
came 
A wondrous noise he had not heard of late — 
A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and 
flame ; 
In short, a roar of things extremely great, 
Which would have made aught save a saint 
exclaim ; 
But he, with first a start and then a wink, 
Said, " There 's another star gone out, I think !" 

XVII. 

But ere h^ could return to his repose, 
A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his 
eyes— 
A. which Saint Peter ya/wn'd, and rubb'd his 
nose: 
"Saint porter," said the angel, "prithee rise!" 
Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows 
An earth! v peacock's tail , with heavenly dyes ; 
To which the saint replied, " Well, what 's the 

matter? 
Is Lueifer come back with all this clatter ?" 



" No," quoth the cherub; " George the Third 

is dead." [apostle-. 

" And who is George the Third? " replied the 

' What George I what Third V ." The king oi 

England," said [jostle 

The angel. " Well! he won't find kings to 

Him on his way ; but does he wear his head ? 

Because the last we saw here had a tustle, 

And ne'er would have got into heaven's good 

graces, 
Had he not flung his head in all our faces. 



' He was, if I remember, king of France; 8 
That head of his, which could not keep a 
crown 

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance 
A claim to those of martyrs — like my own 

If I had had my sword, as I had once 
When I cut ears off, I had cut him down ; 

But having but my keys, and not my brand, 

I only knock'd his head from out his hand. 



' Anl then he set up such a headless howl, 
That all the saints came out and took him 
in ; 

And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl ; 
That fellow Paul — the parvenu ! The skin 

Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl 
In heavqp, and upon earth redeem'd his sin, 

So as to make a martyr, never sped 

Better than did this weak and wooden head. 



' But had it come up here upon its shoulders, 
There would have been a different tale to 
tell: 
The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders 

Seems to have acted on them like a spell ; 
And so this very foolish head heaven solders 

Back on its trunk : it may be very well, 
And seems the custom here to overthrow 
Whatever has been wisely done below." 



The angel answer'd, " Peter ! do not pout : 
The king who comes has head and allenti/e 

And never knew much what it was about — 
He did as doth the puppet— by its wire. 

And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt- 
My business and your own is nottoinquiri 

Into such matters, but to mind our cue — 

Which is to act as we are bid to do " 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



213 



W\u\e thus they spake, the angelic caravan, 
Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, 

Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan 
Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile.orlnde, 

Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an 
old man 
With an old soul, and both extremely blind, 

Halted before the gate, and in his shroud 

Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. 



And from the gate thrown open issued beaming 
A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, 

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming 
Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing 
fight: 

My poor comparisons must needs be teeming 
With earthly likjassses, for here the night 

Of clay obscures ou- best conceptions, saving 

Johanna Southcote 1 * 1 , or Bob Southey raving. 



But bringing up the rear of this bright host 
A Spirit of a different aspect waved 

His wings,like thunder-clouds above some coast 
Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks 
is paved ; 

His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd; 
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved 

Eternal wrath on his immortal face, 

And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space. 



T was the archangel Michael : all men know 
The make of angels and archangels, since 

There 's scarce a scribbler has not one to snow 
From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince, 

There also are some altar-pieces, though 
I really can't say that they much evince 

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ; 

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits 



As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate 
Ne'er to be enter 'd more by him or Sin, 

With such a glance of supernatural hate, 
As made Saint Peter wish himself within; 

He patter'd with his keys at a grea< rate, 
And sweated through his apostohc skin : 

Of course his perspiration was but ichor, 

Or some such other spiritual liquor. 



The very cherubs huddled all together, 

Like birds when soars the falcon ; and they 
felt 
A tingling to the tip of eveiy feather, 

And form'd a circle like Orion's belt 
Around their poor old charge ; who scarce knew 
whither [dealt 

His guards had led him, though they gently 
With royal manes (for by many stories, 
nd true, we learn the angels are all Tories). 



Michael flew forth in glory and in good ; 

A goodly work of him from whom all glory 
And good arise ; the portal past — he stood ; 

Before him the young cherubs and saints 
hoary — 
(I say young, begging to be understood 

By looks, not years ; and should be very 
sorry 
To state, they were not older than St. Peter, 
But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter). 



The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before 
That arch-angelic hierarch, the first 

Of essences angelical, who wore 

The aspect of a god ; but this ne'er nursed 

Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core 
No thought, save for his Maker's service 
durst 

Intrude, however glorified and high ; 

He knew him but the vicercy of the sky 



As things were in this posture, the gate flew 
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges 

Flung over space an universal hue 

Of many-colour' d flame, until its tinges 

Reach' d even our speck of earth, and made a 
new 
Aurora borealis spread its fringes 

O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice- 
bound, [Sound." 9 

By Captain Parry's crew, in "Melville's 



He and the sombre silent Spirit met — 

They knew each other both for good and ill ; 

Such was their power, that neither could forge* 
His former friend and future foe ; but still 

There was a high, immortal, proud regret 
In either's eye, as if 'twere less their will 

Than destiny to make the eternal years 

Their date of war, and then " champ clos " tin 
spheres. 



214 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



But here they were in neutral space, we know 
From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay 

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; 
And that " the sons of God," like those of 
clay, 

Must keep him company, and we might show 
From the same book, in how polite a way 

The dialogue is held between the Powers 

Of Good and Evil— but 't would take up hours. 



Michael began " What wouldst thou with thii 
man. [What ill 

Now dead, and brought before the Lord ? 
Hath he wrought since his mortal race began. 

That thou canst claim him ? Speak ! and da 
thy will, 
If it be just : if in this earthly span 

He hath been greatly failing to fulfil 
His duties as a king and mortal, say, 
And he is thine ; if not, let him have way." 



And this is not a theologic tract, 

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, 

If Job be allegory or a fact, 

But a true narrative ; and thus I pick 

From out the whole but such and such an act, 
As sets aside the slightest thought of trick. 

T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion, 

&nd accurate as any other vision. 



The spirits were in neutral space, before 
The gate of heaven ; like eastern thresholds is 

The place where Death's grand cause is argued 
o'er, 
And souls despatch'd to that world or to this; 

And therefore Michael and the other wore 
A civil aspect : though they did not kiss, 

Yet still between his Darkness and his Bright- 
ness 

There pass'd a mutual glance of great politeness. 

XXXVI. 

The Archangel bow'd, not like a modern beau, 
But with a graceful oriental bend, 

Pressing One radiant arm just where below 
The heart in good men is supposed to tend. 

He turn'd as to an equal, not too low, 

But kindly ; Satan met his ancient friend 

With more hauteur, as might an old Castilian 

Poor noble mee a mushroom rich civilian. 



He merely bent his diabolic brow 

An instant ; and then raising it, he stood 

in act to assert his right or wrong, and show 
Cause why King George by no means could 
or should 

Make out a case to be exempt from woe 
Eternal, more than other kings, endued 

With better sense and hearts, whom history 
mentions, [intentions."" 

Who long have "paved hell with their good 



" Michael !" replied the Prince of Air, " even 
here, 

Before the Gate of him thou servest, must 
I claim my subject: and will make appear 

That as he was my worshipper in dust, 
So shall he be in spirit, although dear 

To thee and thine, because nor wine nor last 
Were of his weaknesses ; yet on the throne 
He reign'd o'er millions to serve me alone, 

XL 

"Look to lur earth, or rather mine , it was, 
Once, more thy master's : but I triumphnot 

In this poor planet's conquest; nor, alas ! 
Need he thou servest envy me my lot: 

With all the myriads of bright worlds which 
pass 
In worship round him, he may have forgot 

Yon weak creation of such paltry things : 

I think few worth damnation save their kings, — 



" And these but as a kind of quit-rent, to 
Assert my right as lord : and even had 

I such an inclination, 't were (as you 

Well know) superfluous ; they are grown so 
bad, 

That hell has nothing better left to do 
Than leave them to themselves : so muc 
more mad 

And evil by their own internal curse, 

Heaven cannot make them better, nor I worse. 



" Look to the earth, I said, and say again: 
When this old, blind, mad, helpless, weak, 
poor worm 
Began in youth's first bloom and flush to reign, 
The world and he both wore a different form, 
And much of earth and all the watery plain 
Of ocean call'd him king through many a 
storm 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



215 



His isles had t oated on the abyss of time; 
For the rough virtues chose them for their clime. 

XLIII. 

" Hi came to his sceptre young , he leaves it 
old: 

Look to the state in which he found his realm, 
And left it ; and his annals too behold, 

How to a minion first he gave the helm ; 
How grew upon his heart a thirst for gold, 

The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm 
The meanest hearts; and for the rest, but glance 
Thine eye along America and France. 



" T is true, he was a tool from first to last 
(I have the workmen safe) ; but as a tool 

So let him be consumed. From out the past 
Of ages, since mankind have known the rule 

Of monarchs — from the bloody rolls amass'd 
Of sin and slaughter — from the Caesars 
school, 

Tale the worst pupil ; and produce a reign 

More drench'd with gore, more cumber'd with 
the slain. 



He ever warr'd with freedom and the free : 

Nations as men, home subjects, foreign foes, 
So that they utter'd the word ' Liberty !' 

Found George the Third their first opponent. 
Whose 
History was ever stain'd as his will be 

With national and individual woes ? 
I grant his household abstinence ; I grant 
His neutral virtues, which most monarchs want; 

XLVI. 

" I know he was a constant consort ; own 
He was a decent sire, and middling lord. 

All this is much, and most upon a throne ; 
As temperance, if at Apicius' board, 

Is more than at an anchorite's supper shown. 
I grant him all the kindest can accord ; 

And this was well for him, but not for those 

Millions who found him what oppression chose. 



' Five millions of the primitive, yrhi hold 
The faith which makes ye great on earth 
implored 

^ part of that vast all they held of old, — 
Freedom to worship — not alone your Lord, 

Michael, but you, and you, Saint Peter ! Cold 
Must be your souls, if you have notabhorr'd 

The foe to Catholic participation 

In all the license of a Christian nation. 

XLIX. 

" True ! he ailow d them to pray God : but as 
A consequence of prayer, refused the law 

Which would have placed them upon the same 

base [awe." 

With those who did not hold the saints i.i 

But here Saint Peter started from his place, 
And cried, " You may the prisoner withdraw: 

Ere heaven shall ope her porials to this Guelph, 

While I am guard, may I be damn'd myself! 



* Sooner will I with Cerberus exchange 
My office (and his is no sinecure) 

Than see this royal Bedlam bigot range 

The azure fields of heaven, o*' that be sure ! " 

" Saint! " replied Satan, " you do well to avenge 
The wrongs he made your satellites endure; 13 

And if to this exchange you should be given, 

I '11 try to coax our Cerberus up to heaven." 

LI 

Here Michael interposed . " Goou saint ! and 
devil ! 

Pray, not so fast ; you both outrun discretion. 
Saint Peter ! you were wont to be more civil* 

Satan ! excuse this warmth of his expression, 
And condescension to the vulgar's level : 

Even saints sometimes forget themselves in 
session. [please, 

Have you got more to say? " — " No " — " If vol 
I '11 trouble you to call your witnesses." 



"The New World shook him off, the Old yet 
groans 

Beneath what he and his prepared, if not 
Completed : he leaves heirs on many thrones 

To all his vices, without what begot 
Compassion for him — his tame virtues ; drones 

Who sleep, or despots who have now forgot 
t lesson which shall be re-taught them, wake 
Iiponthe thrones o r earth : but letthem quake ! 



Then Satan turn d and waved his swarthy hand 
Which stirr'd with its electric qualities 

Clouds farther off than we can understand, 
Although we find him sometimes in our skies 

Infernal thunder shook both sea and lard 
In all the planets, and hell's batteries 

Let off the artillery, which Milton mentions 

As one of Satan's most sublime inventions. 



216 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



This was a signal unto such damn'd souls 
As have the privilege of their damnation 

Extended far beyond the mere controls 

Of worlds past, present, or to come; no station 

Is theirs particularly in the rolls 

Of hell assign'd ; hut where their inclination 

Or business carries them in search of game, 

They may range freely — being damn'd the same. 



LTIII. 

But take your choice); andtten it grew a cloud 
And so it was — a cloud of witnesses. 

But such a cloud ! No land e'er saw a ciowd 
Of locusts numerous as the heavens saw these, 

They shadow'd with their myriads space ; then 
loud 
And varied cries were like those of wild gee* 

(if nations may be liken' d to a goose), 

And realised the phrase of "hell broke loose.' 



They are proud of this — as very well they may, 
It being a sort of knighthood, or gilt key 

Stuck in their loins^ ; or like to an K entre" 
Up the back stairs, or such free-masonry. 

[ borrow my comparisons from clay, 

Being clay myself. Let not those spirits be 

Offended with such base low likenesses ; 

We know their posts are nobler far than these. 



Here crash'd a sturdy oath of stout John Bi.li, 

Who damn'd away his eyes as heretofore: 
There Paddy brogued " By Jasus ! " — " What a 
yourwull?" [ghost swore 

The temperate Scot exclaim'd : the French 
In certain terms I sha'n't translate in full, 

Asthe first coachman will; and 'midst the was 
The voice of Jonathan was heard to express, 
Our president is going to war, I guess." 



When the great signal ran from heaven tohell — 
About ten million times the distance recir&n'd 

From our sun to its earth, as we can toli 
How much time it takes sp, even to a second, 

For every ray that travels to dispel 

The fogs of London, through which, dimly 
beacon'd, 

The weathercocks are gilt some thrice a j"%ar, 

T f that the summer is not too severe M 



3esides there were the Spaniard, Dutch, an4 
Dane ; 

In short, an universal shoal of shades, 
From Otaheite's isle to Salisbury Plain, 

Of all climes and professions, years and trad % s, 
Ready to swear against the good king's reign, 

Bitter as clubs in cards are against spades . 
All summon 'd by this grand " subpoena," to 
Try if kings mayn't be damn'd like me or you. 



I say that I can tell— 'twas half a minute : 
I know the solar beams take up more time 

Ere, pack'd up for their journey, they begin it; 
But then their telegraph is less sublime, 

And if they ran a race, they would not win it 
Gainst Satan's couriers bound tor their own 
clime. 

1 ■. e jun takes up some years for every ray 

1 o reach its goal — the devil not half a day. 



When Michael saw this host, he first grew pale, 
As angels can; next, like Italian twilight, 

He turn'd all colours — as a peacock's tail, 
Or sunset streaming through a Gothic sky- 
light 

In some old abbey, or a trout not stale, 

Or distant lightning on the horizon by night 

Or a fresh rainbow, or a grand review 

Of thirty regiments in red, green, and blue. 



Upon the verge of space, about the size 
Of half-a-crown, a little speck appear'd 

[I ve seen a something like it in the skies 
In the vEgean. ere a squall) ; it near'd, 

And, growing bigger, took another guise ; 
Like an aerial shin it tack'd, and steer 'd, 

Or was steer'd (I am doubtful o " the grammar 

Of the last phrase, which makes the stanza 
stammer ; — 



Then he address'd himselfto Satan : " Why — 
My good old friend, for such I deem you 
though 

Our different parties make us fight so shy, 
I ne'er mistake you for a personal foe ; 

Our difference is political, and I 

Trust that, whatever may occur below, 

You know my great respect for you : and this 

Makes me regret whate'er you do amiss — 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



217 



LXIII. 

■* Why, my dear Lucifer, would you abuse 
My call for witnesses? I did not mean 

That you should half of earth and hell produce; 
T is even superfluous, since two honest, 
clean, 

True testimonies are enough: we lose 
Our time, nay, our eternity, hetween 

The accusation and defence : if we 

Hear both, 't will stretch our immortality." 

lxiv. 

Satan replied, " To me the matter is 

Ind ; flerent, in a personal point of view : 

I can have fifty better souls than this 

With far less trouble than we have gone 
through 

Already ; and I merely argued his 

Late majesty of Britain's case with you 

Upon a point of form ■ you may dispose 

Of him; I've kings enough below, God 
knows !" 



LXVIII. 

" Sir," replied Michael, "you mistake; these 
things 

Are of a former life, and what we do 
Above is more august; to judge of kings 

Is the tribunal met : so now you know." 
" Then I presume those gentlemen with wings," 

Said Wilkes, " are cherubs ; and that BOOi 

below [mind 

Looks much like George the Third, but to my 

A good deal older — Bless me ! is he blind?'' 

LX1X. 

" He is what you behold him, and his doom 
Depends upon his deeds," the Angel said. 

" If you have aught to arraign in him, the tomb 
Gives license to the humblest beggar's head 

To lift itself against Cne loftiest." — " Some," 
Said Wilkes, " don't wait to see them laic 
in lead, 

For such a liberty — and I, for one, [sun. 

Have told them what I thought beneath th* 



Thus spoke the Demon (late call'd "multifaced" 
By multo-scribbling Southey). " Then we'll 
call 
One or two persons of the myriads placed 

Around our congress, and dispense with all 
The rest," quoth Michael : " Who may be so 
graced [who shall 

As to speak first? there's choice enough- 
It be ? ' Then Satan answer'd, " There are 
many; [any." 

But you may choose Jack Wilkes as well as 

LXVI. 

A merry, cock-eyed, curious-looking sprite 
Opon the instant started from the throng, 

Dress'd in a fashion now forgotten quite ; 
For all the fashions of the flesh stick long 

By people in the next world ; where unite 
All the costumes since Adam's, right 01 
wrong, 

I'Vom Eve s fig-leaf down to the petticoat, 

Almost as scanty, of days less remote 

LXVII 

The spirit look'd around upon the crowds 
Assembled, and exclaim'd, " My friends Oi 
all [clouds ; 

The spheres, we shall catch cold amongst these 
So let's to business : why this general call ? 

If those are freeholders I see in shrouds, 
And 'tis for an election that they bawl, 

Behold a candidate with unturn'd coat ! 

Saint Peter, may I count upon vour vote?" 



" Above the sun repeat, then, what thou hast 
To urge against him," said the Archangel. 
" Why," 

Replied the spirit, " since old scores are past. 
Must I turn evidence? In faith, not J. 

Besides, I beat him hollow at the last, [sky 
With all his Lords and Commons : in the 

I don't like ripping up old stories, since 

His conduct was but natural in a prince. 



" Foolish, no doubt, and wicked, to oppress 
A poor unlucky devil without a shilling: 

But then I blame the man himself much less 
Than Bute and Grafton, and shall be uu- 
willing 

To see him punish'd here for their excess, 
Since they were both damn'd long ago, ann 
still in 

Their place below, for me, I have fov2 : "en, 

And vote his ' habeas corpus' into heaven " 

LXXII. 

" Wilkes," said the Devil, " I understand all 
this ; 

You turn'd to half a courtier ere you died, 1 * 
And seem to think it would not be amiss 

To grow a whole one on the other side 
Of Charon's ferry; you lorget that his 

Reign is concluded ; whatsoe'er betide, 
He won't be sovereign more: you've lost 

your labour, 
For at the best he will but be your neighbour. 



218 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT 



LXXIII. 

v However, I knew what to think of it, 
When I beheld you in your jesting way, 

Flitting and whispering round about the spit 
Where Belial, upon duty for the day, 

With Fox's lard was basting William Pitt, 
His pupil ; I knew what to think, I say: 

That fellow even in hell breeds farther ills ; 

L I! have him gaggd — 'twas one of his own 
bills. 

I.XXIV. 

•• Call Junius !" From the crowd a shadow 
staik'd, 
And at the name there was a general squeeze, 
So that the veiy ghosts no longer walk'd 

In comfort, at their own aerial ease, 
But were all ramm'd, and jainm'd (but to be 
balk'd, 
As we shall see), and jostled hands and knees, 
]ake wind compress'd and pent within a 

bladder, 
f)r like a human colic, which is sadder. 

LXXV. 

The shadow came— a tall, thin, grey-hair 'd 
figure, 
That look'd as it had been a shade on earth ; 
3uick in its motions, with an air of vigour, 

But nought to mark its breeding or its birth : 
Sfow it wax'd little, then again grew bigger, 

With now an air of gloom, or savage mirth ; 
But as you gazed upon its features, they 
Changed every instant — to what, none could 
say. 

r.xxvi. 
The more intently the ghosts gazed, the less 
Couli thev distinguish whose the features 
were; 
The Devil himself seem'd puzzled even to guess ; 
They varied like a dream — now here, now 
there , 
And several people swore from out the press, 
They knew him perfectly ; and one could 
swear 
Ho was his father . upon which another 
Was sure he was his mother's cousin's brother: 

LXXVII. 

Another, that he was a duke, or knight, 
An orator, a lawyer, or a priest, 

A nabob, a man-midwife 16 : but the wight 
Mysterious changed his countenance at least 

As oft as they their minds : though in full sight 
He stood, the puzzle only was increased ; 

The man was a phantasmagoria in 

Himself — he was so volatile and thin. 



LXXVIII. 

The moment that you had pronounced him one, 
Presto ! his face changed, and he was another ; 

And when that change was hardly well put on, 
It varied, till I don't think his own mothei 

(If that he had a mother) would her son 
Have known, he shifted so from one to 
t' other ; 

Till puessing from a pleasure grew a task, 

At this epistolary " Iron Mask." ,7 

LXXIX. 

For sometimes he like Cerberus would s':em — 
" Three gentlemen at once" (as sagely says 

Good Mrs. Malaprop) ; then you might deem 
That he was not even one : now many rays 

Were flashing round him ; and now a thick 

steam [days : 

Hid him from sight — like fogs on London 

Now Burke, now Tooke, he grew to people's 
fancies, 

And certes often like Sir Philip Francis. 18 

I.XXX 

I've an hypothesis — 'tis quite my own ; 

I never let it out till now, for fear 
Of doing people harm about the throne, 

And injuring some minister or peer, 
On whom the stigma might perhaps be blown . 

It is — my gentle public, lend thine ear ! 
Tis that what Junius we are wont to call 
Was really, truly, nobody at all. 

LXXXI. 

I den't see wherefore letters should not be 
Written without hands, since we daily view 

Them written without heads ; and books, we 
see, 
Are fill'd as well without the latter too . 

And really till we fix on somebody 

For certain sure to claim them as his due, 

Their author, like the Niger's mouth, will 
bother 

The world to say if there be mouth or author. 

LXXXII. 

" And who and what art thou?" the Archangel 
said 
" For that you may consult my title-page," 
Replied this mighty shadow of a shade . 

" If I have kept my secret half an age, 
I scarce shall tell i now." — " Canst thou n> 
braid," 
Continued Michael, " George Rex, or allege 
Aught further ?" Junius answer'd, u Yon had 

better 
Firs-t ask him for kit answer to my letter • 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



219 



L XXXII I. 

* My charges upon record will outlast 
The brass of both his epitaph and tomb." 

K Repcnt'st thou not," said Michael, " of some 
past 
Exaggeration ? something which may doom 

Thyself if false, as him if true? Thou wast 
Too bitter — is it not so ? — in thy gloom 

Of passion ?" — " Passion !" cried the phantom 
dim, 

" I loved my country, and I hated him. 



H What I have written, I have written : let 
The rest be on his head or mine !" So spoke 

Old " Nominis Umbra 19 ;" and while speaking 
Away he melted in celestial smoke. [yet, 

Then Satan said to Michael, " Don't forget 
To call George "Washington, and John 
Home Tooke, Theard 

And Franklin ;" — but at this time there was 

A cry for room, though not a phantom stirr'd. 

LXXXV. 

At length with jostling, elbowing, and the aid 
Of cherubim appointed to that post, 

The devil Asmodeus to the circle made 
His way, and look'd as if his journey cost 

Some trouble. When his burden down he laid, 
" What 's this?" cried Michael; " why, 'tis 
not a ghost?" 

"I know it," quoth the incubus; " but he 

Shall be one, if you leave the affair to me. 



LXXXVIII. 

Here Satan said, " I know this man of old, 
And have expected him for some time he.e; 

A sillier fellow you will scarce behold, 
Or more conceited in his petty sphere- 

But surely it was not worth while to fold 
Such trash below your wing, Asmodeus dear. 

We had the poor wretch safe (without being 
bored 

With carnage) coming of his own accord. 

LXXXIX. 

" But since he 's here, let 's see what he has 
done." 
" Done!" cried Asmodeus, "he anticipates 
The very business you are now upon, 

And scribbles as if head clerk to the Fates. 
Who knows to what his ribaldry may run, 
When such an ass as this, like Balaam's, 
prates ! " 
" Let 's hear," quoth Michael, " what he has 

to say; 
You know we 're bound to that in every way." 



Now the bard, glad to get an audience, which 
By no means often was his case below, 

Began to cough, and hawk, and hem, and pitch 
His voice into that awful note of woe 

To all unhappy hearers within reach 

Of poets when the tide of rhyme 's in flow ; 

But stuck fast with his first hexameter, 

Not one of all whose gouty feet would stir. 



" Confound the renegado ! I have sprain'd 
My left wing, he's so heavy; one would 
think 

Some of his works about his neck were chain d. 
Bu*. to the point; while hovering o'er the 
brink 

Of Skiddaw (where as usual it still rain'd), 2 " 
I saw a taper, far below me, wink, 

And stooping, caught this fellow at a libel — 

No less on history than the. Holy Bible. 



"The former is the devil's scripture, and 
The latter yours, good Michael ; so the affair 

Belongs to all of us, you understand. 

I snatch'd him up just as you see him there, 

And brought him off for sentence out of hand: 
I 've scarcely been ten minutes in the air — 

At "east a quarter it can hardly be: 

I dare say that his wife is still at tea." 



But ere the spavin'd dactyls couM be spurr'd 

Into recitative, in great dismay, 
Both cherubim and seraphim weie heard 

To murmur loudly through their long array ; 
And Michael rose ere he could get a word 

Of all his founder'd verses under way, 
And cried " For God's sake, stop, my friend 

't were best — 
Non Di, non homines — you know the rest.' -I 



A general bustle spread throughout the throng, 

Which seem'd to hold all verse in detestation , 
The angels had of course enough of song 

"When upon service; and the generation 
Of ghosts had heard too much in life, not long 

Before to profit by a new occasion ; 
The monarch, mute till then, exclaim'd, " Whut' 

23 what! 22 
Pye come again? No more — no more of that!" 



220 



THE VISION, OF JUDGMENT. 



XCIII 

The tumult grew; au universal cough 
Convulsed the skies, as during a debate, 

When Castlereagh has been up long enough 
(Before be was first minister of state, 

f mean — the slaves hear now) ; some cried " Off*, 
off! " 
As at a farce ; till, grown quite desperate 

The bard Saint Peter pray'd to interpose 

(.Himself an author) only for his prose. 



He had sung against all battles, and again 
In their high praise and glory ; he had call's 

Reviewing 24 " the ungentle craft," and then 
Became as base a critic as e'er crawl'd — 

Fed, paid, and pamper' d by the very men 
By whom his muse and morals had bees, 
maul'd : [prose 

He had written much blank verse, and blanker 

And more of both than any body knows. 



The varlet was not an ill-favour'd knave; 

A good deal like a vulture in the face, 
With a hook nose and a hawk's eye, which gave 

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace 
To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave, 

Was by no means so ugly as his case; 
But that indeed was hopeless as can be, 
Quite a poetic felony " de se." 

xcv. 

Then Michael blew his trump, and still'd the 
ncise 

"With one still greater, as is yet the mode 
On earth besides; except som«» grumbling 
voice, [road 

Which now and then will make a slight in 
Upon decorous silence, few will twice 

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrowd; 
And now the bard could plead his own bad cause, 
With all the attitudes of self-applause. 



He had written Wesley's life: — here turning 
round 

To Satan, " Sir, I 'm ready to write yours, 
In two octavo volumes, nicely bound, 

With notes and preface, all that most allurer 
The pious purchaser; and there 's no ground 

For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers 
So let me have the proper documents 
That I may add you to my other saints." 



Satan bow'd, and was silent. " Well, if you 

With amiable modesty decline 
My offer, what says Michael ? There a r e fe? 

Whose memoirs could be render'd mor 
divine. 
Mine is a pen of all work ; not so new 

As it was once, but I would make you shine 
Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own 
Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown 



He said — (I only give the heads) — he said. 
He meant no harm in scribbling; 'twas his 
way 
Upon all topics; 'twas, besides, his bread, 
Of which he butter'd both sides ; 't would 
delay 
Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread), 

And take up rather more time than a day, 
To name his works — he would but cite a few — 
" Wat Tyler " — " Rhymes on Blenheim " — 
" Waterloo." 



•' But talking about trumpets, here's my Vision 
Now you shall judge, all people ; ves, you 
shall 

Judge with my judgment, and by my decision 
Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall. 

I settle all these tilings by intuition, 

Times present, past, to come, heaven, he. 
and all, 

Like king Alfonso. 25 When I thus see double 

I save the Deity some worlds of trouble." 



xcvu. 
He had written praises of a regicide ; 

He had written praises of all kings whatever; 
He had written for republics far and wide, 

And then against them bitterer than ever , 
For pantisocracy he once had cried 

Aloud, scheme less moral than 'twas clever; 
Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin — 
Had turn'd hi* toat — and would have turn'd 
his skin. 



cir. 
He ceased, and drew forth an MS. ; and no 

Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints, 
Or angels, now could stop the torrent ; so 

He read the first three lines of the content* 
But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show 

PI ad vanish'd, with variety of scents, 
Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang, 
Like lightning, off from his " melodioiw 
twang." 26 



THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. 



221 



Those grand heroics acted as a spell ; 

The angels stopp'd their ears and plied their 
pinions ; 
The devils ran howling, deafen'd, down to hell ; 

The ghosts lied, gibbering, for their own 
dominions — 
(For 'tis not yet decided where they dwell, 

And I leave every man to his opinions) ; 
Michael took refuge in his trump — but, lo ! 
His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow ! 



Saint Peter, who has hitherto oeen known 
For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys, 

And at the fifth line knock'd the poet down ; 
Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease, 

Into his lake, for there he did not drown ; 
A different web being by the Destinies 

Woven for the Laureate's final wreath, when- 
e'er 

Reform shall happen either here or there. 



He first sank to the bottom — like ins works, 
Brt soon rose to the surface — like himself 

For all corrupted things are buoy 'd like corks, 2 
By their own rottenness, light as an elf. 

Or wisp that flits o'er a morass : he lurks, 
It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf, 

In his own den, to scrawl some '' Life" o> 
" Vision," 

As Welborn says — " the devil turn'd precisian ' 



As for the rest, to come to the conclusion 
Of this true dream, the telescope is gone 

Which kept my optics free from all delusion . 
And show'd me what I in my turn have 
shown ; 

All I saw farther, in the last confusion, 
Was, that King George slipp'd into hea^e» 
for one ; 

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm, 

I left him practising the hundredth psalm. 



©uftwstw pieces, ~isi6 



FARE THEE WELL.' 



Alas ! they have been friends in youth ; 
15ut whispering tongues can poison truth; 
And constancy lives in realms above ; 
And life is thorny ; and youth is vain : 
And to be wroth with one we love, 
Doth work like madness in the brain ; 

But never either found another 

To free the hollow heart from painintr — 

They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 

Like cliffs, which had been rent asunner; 

A dreary sea now flows between, 

But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 

Shall wholly qo away, I ween, 

The marks of that which once hath been." 

Coleridge's Christabel 



Fake thee well ; and if for ever, 

Still for ever, fare thee well ; 
Even though unforgiving, never 

'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel 

Would that breast were bared before thee 
Where thy head so oft hath lain. 

While that placid sleep came o'er thee 
Which thou ne'er canst know again. 

Would that breast, by thee glanced over 
Every inmost thought could show ! 

Then thou wouldst at last discover 
'T was not well to spurn it so. 

Though the world for this commend thce- 
Though it smiles upon the blow, 

Even its praises must offend thee, 
Founded on another's woe: 



Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not; 

Love may sink by slow decay, 
But by sudden wrench, believe not 

Hearts can thus De u,rn away: 

Still thine own its life retaineth — 

Still must mine, though bleeding, beat ; 

And the undying thought which paiueth 
Is — that, we no more may meet. 

These are words of deeper sorrow 
Than the wail above the dead ; 

Both shall live, but every morrow 
Wake us from a widow' d bed. 

And when thou would solace gather, 
When our child's first accents flow. 

Wilt thou teach her to say " Father ! " 
Though his care she must forego ? 

When her little hands shall press thet, 
When her lip to thine is press'd, 

Think of him whose prayer shall bless 
Think of him thy love had bless'd ! 

Should her lineaments resemble 
Those thou never more may'st see, 

Then thy heart will softly tremble 
W r ith a pulse yet true to me. 

All my faults perchance thou knowest. 

All my madness none can know ; 
All my hopes, where'er thou goest. 

Wither, yet with thee they go. 

Every feeling hath been shaken ; 

Pride, which not a world could bow, 
Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, 

Even mv soul forsakes me now : 



Though my many faults defaced me, 
Could no other arm be found, 

Than the arm that once embraced me, 
To inflict a cureless wound ? 



But 't is done — all words are idle — 
Words from me are vainer still ; 

But the thoughts we cannot bridle 
Force their wav without the will.- 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



223 



Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, 

Tom from every nearer tie, 
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, 

More than this I scarce can die. 

March 17, 1816. 



A SKETCH.* 



" Honest — honest lago ! 
If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.' 
Shakspeare. 



.iorn in the garret, in the kitchen bred, 
Promoted thence to deck her mistress' head ; 
Next — for some gracious service unexpress'd, 
A.nd from its wages only to be guess' d — 
Raised from the toilet to the table, — where 
Her wondering betters wait behind her chair. 
With eye unmoved, and forehead unabash'd, 
She dines from off the plate she lately wash'd. 
Quick with the tale, and ready with the lie — 
The genial confidante, and general spy — 
Who could, ye gods! her next employment 

guess — 
An only infant's earliest governess! 
She taught the child to read, and taught so well, 
That she herself, by teaching, leam'd to spell. 
An adept next in penmanship she grows. 
As many a nameless slander deftly shows. 
What she had made the pupil of her art, 
None know — but that high Soul secured the 

heart, 
And panted for the truth it could not hear, 
With longing breast and undeluded ear. 
Foil'd was perversion by that youthful mind, 
Which Flattery fool'd not — Baser ess could 

not blind, 
Deceit infect not — near Contagion soil — 
indulgence weaken — nor Example spoil — 
Noi master'd Science tempt her to look down 
On humbler talents with a pitying frown — 
Nor Genius swell — nor Beauty render vain — 
Nor Envy ruffle to retaliate pain — 
Nor loitune change — Pride raise — nor Passion 

bow, 
Nor Virtue teach austerity — till now. 
Serenely purest of her sex that live, 
But wanting one sweet weakness — to forgive, 
Too shock'd at faults her soul can never know, 
She deems that all could be like her below : 



Foe to all vice, yet hardly Virtue's friend, 
For Virtue pardons those she would amend. 

But to the theme : — now laid aside too long, 
The baleful burthen of this honest song — 
Though all her former functions are no more. 
Sht rules the circle which she served before. 
If mothers — none know why — before her 

quake ; 
If daughters dread her for the mothers sake. 
If early habits — those false links, which bin.i 
At times the loftiest to the meanest mind — 
Have given her power too deeply to instil 
The angry essence of her deadly will ; 
If like a snake she steal within your walls. 
Till the black slime betray her as she crawls- 
If like a viper to the heart she wind, 
And leave the ven»m there she did not find ; 
What marvel that this hag of hatred works 
Eternal evil latent as she lurks, 
To make a Pandemonium where she dwells. 
And reign the Hecate of domestic hells? 
Skill'd by a touch to deepen scandal's tints 
With all the kind mendacity of hints, 
While mingling truth with falsehood — snetn 

with smiles — 
A thread of candour with a web of wiles; 
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seemi.ig 
To hide her bloodless heart's soul-harden 1 

scheming; 
A Mp of lies — a face form'd to conceal ; 
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel : 
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown; 
A cheek of parchment — and an eye of stone. 
Mark, how the channels of her yellow blood 
Ooze to her skin, and stagnate there to mud, 
Cased like the centipede in saffron mail, 
Or darker greenness of the scorpion's scale — 
For drawn from reptiles only may we trace 
Congenial colours in that soul or face'. 1 — 
Look on her features ! and behoid ner mind 
As in a mirror of itself defined : 
Look on the picture! deemitnoto'ercharged — 
There is no trait which might not be enlarged 
Yet true to "Nature's journeymen," who made 
This monster when their mistress left off trade— 
This female dog-star of her little sky, 
Where all beneath her influence droop or die 

Oh ! wretch without a tear— without t 

thought, 
Save joy above the rain thou hast wrought — 
The time shall come, nor long remote, when 

thou 
Shalt feel far more than thou inflictest now ; 
Feel for thy vile self-loving self in vain, 



224 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



And turn thee howling in unpitied pain. 
May the strong curse of crush'd affections 

light 
Back on thy hosom with reflected blight! 
And make thee in thy leprosy of mind 
As loathsome to thyself as to mankind ! 
Till all thy self-thoughts curdle into hate, 
Black — as thy will for others would create 
Till thy hard heart be calcined into dust, 
And thy soul welter in its hideous crust. 
Oh, may thy grave be sleepless as the bed, — 
The widow'd couch of fire, that thou hast 

spread ! [with prayer, 

Then, when thou fain would'st weary Heaven 
Look on thine earthly victims — and despair! 
Down to the dust! — and, as thou rott'st away, 
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay. 
But for the love I bore, and still must bear, 
To her thy malice from all ties would tear — 
Thy name — thy human name — to every eye 
The climax of all scorn should hang on high, 
Exalted o'er thy less abhorr'd compeers — 
And festering in the infamy of years. 

March 29, 181 6. 



Thou stood'st, as stands a lovely tree, 
That still unbroke, though gently bent, 

Still waves with fond fidelity 
Its boughs above a monument. 

The winds might rend — the skies might pouf 
But there thou wert — and still wouldst be 

Devoted in the stormiest hour 
To shed thy weeping leaves o'er me. 

But thou and thine shall know no blight. 
Whatever fate on me may fall ; 

For heaven in sunshine will requite 
The kind — and thee the most of all. 

Then let the ties of baffled love 

Be broken — thine will never break ; 

Thy heart can feel — but will not move ; 
Thy soul, though soft, will never shake. 

And these, when all was lost beside, 

Were found and still are fix'd in thee ; — 

And bearing still a breast so tried, 
Earth is no desert — ev'n to me 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.* 

When all around grew drear and dark, 

And reason half withheld her ray — 
And hope but shed a dying spark 

Which more misled my lonely way ; 
In that deep midnight of the mind, 

And that internal strife of heart, 
When dreading to be deem'd too kind, 

The weak despair — the cold depart ; 

When fortune changed — and love fled far, 
And hatred's shafts flew thick and fast, 

Thou wert the solitary star 

Which rose, and set not to the last. 

Oh ! blest be thine unbroken light ! 

That watch' d me as a seraph's eye, 
And stood between me and the nignt, 

For ever shining sweetly nigh. 

And when the cloud upon us came, 

Which strove to blacken o'er thy ray — 

Then purer spread its gentle flame, 
And dash'd the darkness all away. 

Still may thy spirit dwell on mine, 

And teach it what to brave or brook — 

There's more in one soft word of thine 
Than in the world's defied rebuke 



STANZAS TO AUGUSTA.* 

Though the day of my destiny's over, 

And the star of my fate hath declined, 
Thy soft heart refused to discover 

The faults which so many could find ; 
Though thy soul with my grief was acquainted 

It shrunk not to share it with me, 
And the love which my spirit hath painted 

It never hath found but in thee. 

Then when nature around me is smiling, 

The last smile which answers to mine, 
I do not believe it beguiling, 

Because it reminds me of thine ; 
And when winds are at war with the ocean, 

As the breasts I believed in with me, 
If their billows excite an emotion, 

It is that they bear me from thee. 

Though the rock of my last hope is shiver'd, 

And its fragments are sunk in the wave, 
Though I feel that my soul is deliver'd 

To pain — it shall not be its slave. 
There is many a pang to pursue me: [temn--« 

They may crush, but they shall not coo 
They may torture, but shall not subdue 

T is of thee that 1 think — n/>t of them. 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



225 



Though human, thou didst not deceive me, 

Though woman, thou didst not forsake, 
Though loved, thou forborest to grieve me, 

Though slander'd, thou never couldst 
shake, — 
Though trusted, thou didst not disclaim me, 

Though parted, it was not to fly, 
Though watchful, 'twas not to defame me, 

Nor. mute, that the world might belie. 

Yet I blame not the world, nor despise it, 

Nor the war of the many with one — 
If my soul was not fitted to prize it, 

'Twas folly not sooner to shun: 
And if dearly that error hath cost me, 

And more than I once could foresee, 
I have found that, whatever it lost me, 

It could not deprive me of thee. 

From the wreck of the past, which hath pe- 
rish'd, 

Thus much I at least may recall, 
It hath taught me that what I most c 1 eri?Vd 

Deserved to be dearest of all : 
In the desert a fountain is springing, 

In the wide waste there still is a tree, 
And a bird in the solitude singing, 

Which speaks to my spirit of thee. 

July 24, 1816. 



EPISTLE TO AUGUSTA 

My si iter ! my sweet sister ! if a name 
Dearer and purer were, it should be thine. 
Mountains and seas divide us, but I claim 
No tears, but tenderness to answer mine: 
Go where I will, to me thou art the same — 
A loved regret which I would not resign. 
There yet are two things in my destiny, — 
A world to roam through, and a home with 
thee. 

The first were nothing — had I still the last, 
It were the haven of my happiness ; 
But other claims and other ties thou hast, 
And mine is not the wish to make them less. 
A. strange doom is thy father's son's, and 

past 
Recalling, as it lies beyond redress ; 
Reversed for him our grandsire's 5 fate of 
yore, — 
He had no rest at sea, nor I on .iho.e. 



J6 



If my inheritance of storms hath been 
In other elements, and on the rocks 
Of perils, overlook d or unforeseen, 
I have sustain'd my share of worldly shocks, 
The fault was mine ; nor do I seek "to «creeil 
My errors with defensive paradox ; 
I have been cunning in mine overthrow, 
The careful pilot of my proper woe. 

Mine were my faults, and mine be their rewar 
My whole life was a contest, since the day 
That gave me being, gave me that which mar:' .' 
The gift, — a fate, or will, that walk'd astray ; 
And I at times have found the struggle hard, 
And thought of shaking ofl' my bonds of day 
But now I fain would lor a time survive, 
If but to see what next can well arrive. 



Kingdoms and empires in my little day 
I have outlived, and yet I am not old ; 
And when I look on this, the petty spray 
Of my own years of trouble, which have roll'd 
Like a wild bay of breakers, melts away : 
Something — I know not what — docs stilfupbold 
A spirit cf slight patience ; — not in vain, 
Even for its own sake, do we purchase pain. 

Perhaps the workings of defiance stir 
Within me, — or perhaps a cold despair, 
Brought on when ills habitually recur, — 
Perhaps a kinder clime, or purer air, 
(For even to this may change of soul refer, 
And with light armour we may learn to bear,) 
Have taught me a strange quiet, which was not 
The chief companion of a calmer lot. 

I feel almost at times as I have felt 

In happy childhood ; trees, and flowers, and 

brooks, 
Which do remember me of where I dwelt 
Ere my young mind was sacrificed to books, 
Come as of yore upon me, and can melt 
My heart with recognition of their looks ; 
And even at moments I could think I see 
Some living thing to love — but none like thee 

Here are the Alpine landscapes which create 

A fund for contemplation; — to admire 

Is a brief feeling of a trivial date ; [spire ■ 

But something worthier do such scenes in 

Here to be lonely is not desolate, 

For much I view which I could most desire. 

And, above all, a lake I can behold 

Lovelier, not dearer, than our own of old 



22b 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



Oh that ihou wert but with me ! — but I grow 
The ibol of my own wishes, and forget 
The solitude which I have vaunted so 
Has lost its praise in this but one regret ; 
There may be others which I less may show ;— 
I am not of the plaintive mood, and yet 
feel an ebb in my philosophy, 
And the tide rising in my alter' d eye, 

did remind thee of our own dear Lake. 6 
By the old flail which may be mine no more. 
Leman's is fair ; but think not I forsake 
The sweet remembrance of a dearer shore : 
Sad havoc Time must with my memory make, 
Ere that or thou can fade these eyes before; 
Though, like all things which I have loved, 
they are 
Resign'd for ever, or divided far. 

The world is all before me ; I but ask 
Of Nature that with which she will comply — 
It is but in her summer's sun to bask, 
To mingle wilh the quiet of her sky, 
To see her gentle face without a mask, 
And never gaze on it with apathy. 
She was my early friend, and now shall be 
My sister — till I louk again on thee. 

J can reduce all feelings but this one ; 
And that I would not ; — for at length I see 
Such scenes as those wherein my life begun 
The earliest — even the only paths for me — 
Had I but sooner learnt the crowd to shun, 
I had been better than I now can be. ; 
The passions which have torn me would have 
slept ; 
J had not suffer'd, and thou hadst not wept. 

With false Ambition what had I to do ? 
Jttle with Love, and least of all with Fame ; 
And yet they came unsought, and with me grew, 
And made me all which they can make — a 

name. 
Yet this was not the end I did pursue ; 
Surely I once beheld a nobler aim. 
But all is over — I am one the more 

To baffled millions whicli have gone before. 

And for the future, this world's future may 
From me demand but little of my care; 
I have outlived myself by many a day; 
Having survived so many things that were; 
My years have been no slumber, but the prey 
Of ceaseless vigils; for I had the share 
Of life which might have fill'd a century, 
Before its fourth in time had pass'd me by. 



And for the remnant which may be to conn 
I am content ; and for the past I feel 
Not thankless. — for within the crowded sum 
Of struggles, happiness at times would steal, 
And for the present, I would not benumb 
My feelings farther. — Nor shall I conceal 
That with all this I still can look around, 
And worship Nature with a thought profound 

For thee, my own sweet sister, in thy heart 
I know myself secure, as thou in mine ; 
We were and are — I am, even as thou art- 
Beings who ne'er each other can resign; 
It is the same, together or apart, 
From life's commencement to its slow decline 
We are entwined — let death come slow or fast 
The tie which bounr 1 the first endures the last 



LINES 

ON HEARING THAT LADY BYRON WAS ILL.' 

Ann thou wert sad — yet I was not with thee ! 

And thou wert sick, and yet I was not near ; 
Metbought that joy and health alone could bo 

Where I was not — and pain and soirow here. 
And is it thus? — it is as I foretold, 

And shall be more so: for the mind recoils 
Upon itself, and the wreck'd heart lies cold, 

While heaviness collects the shatter'd spoils. 
It is not in the storm nor in the strife 

We feel benumb'd, and wish to be no more, 

But in the after-silence on the shore, 
When all is lost, except a little life. 

I am too well avenged! — but 'twas my right; 

Whate'er my sins mightbe, thou wert not sent 
To be the Nemesis who should requite — 

Nor did Heaven choose so near an instru- 
ment. 
Mercy is for the merciful ! — if thou 
Hast been of such, 't will be accorded now. 
Thy nights are banish'd from the realms :.l 
sleep ! — 

Yes ! they may flattei thee, but thou shalt fee) 

A hollow agony which will not heal, 
For thou art pillow'd on a curse too deep ; 
Thou hast sown in my sorrow, and must reap 

The bitter harvest in a woe as real ! 
I have had many foes, but none like thee ; 

For 'gainst the rest myself I could defend, 

And be avenged, or turn them into frieui ; 
But thou in safe implacability 



DOMESTIC PIECES. 



22? 



Hadst tiougni 10 ciread — in thy own weakness 

shielded, fyielded, 

And in my love, which hath but too much 

And spared, for thy sake, some I should not 

spare — 
nd thus upon the world — trust in thy truth — 
od the wild fame of my ungovern'd youth — 
On things that were not, and on things that 
are — 
Even upon such a basis hast thou built 
A monument, whose cement hath been guilt ! 
The moral Clytemnestra of thy lord, 
And hew'd down, with an unsuspected sword, 
Fame, peace, and hope — and all the better life 
Which, but for this cold treason of thy heart 
Mightstill have risen from out the grave of strife, 
And found a nobler duty than to part. 
But sf thy virtues didst t'.ou make a vice, 



Trafficking with them in a purpose cold, 

For present anger, and for future gold — 
And buying other's grief at any price. 
And thus once cnter'd into crooked ways, 
The early truth, which was thy proper prai->e, 
Did not still walk beside thee — but at times. 
And with a breast unknowing its own crimes. 
Deceit, averments incompatible, 
Equivocations, and the thoughts which dwell 

In Janus-spirits — the significant eye 
Which learns to lie with silence — the pretext 
Of Prudence, with advantages annex'd — 
The acquiescence in all things which tend, 
No matter how, to the desired end — 

All found a place in thy philosophy. 
The means were worthy, and the end is won — 
I would not do by thee as thou hast donr- ' 

°'»)*p*ab«r, 1816 



#ccaskmal pms. 



FAREWELL! IF EVER FONDEST 

PRAYER. 
Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 

For other's weal avail'd on high, 
Mine will not all be lost in air, 

But waft thy name beyond the sky. 
Twere vain to speak, to weep, to Mgh: 

Oh ! more than tears of blood can tell, 
When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, 

Are in that word — Fare we^'— Farewell! 

These lips are mute, these ey » are ch-7 ; 

But in my breast and in mj brain, 
Awake the pangs that pass not By . 

The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. 
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, 

Though grief and passion there rebel: 
1 only know we loved in vain — 

I only feel — Farewell! — Farewell! 



JRIGHT BE THE PLACE OF THY 
SOUL. 

Beight be the place of thy soul! 

No lovelier spirit than thine 
E'er burst from its mortal control, 

In the orbs of the blessed to shine. 

On earth thou wert all but divine, 
As thy soul shall immortally be ; 

And our sorrow may cease to repine, 

When we know that thy God is witSa thee 

Light be the turf of thy tomb! 

May its verdure like emeralds be: 
There* should not be the shadow of gloom 

In aught that reminds us of thee. 

f oung flowers and an evergreen tree 
May spring from the spot of thy rest: 

But nor cypress nor yew let us see; 
For why should we mourn for the blest ? 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED. 

When we two parted 
In silence and tears 

Half broken-hearted 
To Bever for years, 



<e grew thy cheek aud «wA( 
Colder thy kiss ; 
Truly that hour foretold 
Sorrow to this. 

The dew of the morning 

Sunk chill on my brow- 
It felt like the warning 

Of what I feel now. 
Tl y vows are all broken, 

And light is thy famp ; 
I hear thy name spoicea, 

And share in its. sfwaro?. 

They name thee before as*, 

A knell to mine ear ; 
A shudder comes o'er me— 

Why wert thou so dear f 
They know not I knew thee, 

Who knew thee too well:— 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 

Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met— 

In silence I grieve, 
That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 
If I should meet thee 

After long years, 
How should I greet thee ? — 

With silence and tears. 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

Few years have pass'd since thou and I 
Were firmest friends, at least in name 

And childhood's gay sincerity 

Preserved our feelings long the same. 

But now, like me, too well thou know'st 
What trifles oft the heart recall; 

And those who once have loved the most 
Too soon forget they loved at all. 

And such the change the heart displays 
So frail is early friendship's reign, 

A month's brief lapse, perhaps a day s, 
Will view thy mind estranged 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



229 



-.'so, it never shall be mine 

To mourn the loss of such a heart ; 

The. fault was Nature's fault, not thine, 
Which made thee hckle as thou art. 

4*. rolls the ocean's changing tide, 
So human feelings ebb and flow; 

And who would in a breast confide, 
Where stormy passions ever glow? 

It bouts not that, together bred, 

Our childish days were days of joy: 

My spring of life has quickly lied ; 
Thou, too, hast ceased to be a boy. 

And when we bid adieu to youth, 
Slaves to the specious world's control 

We sigh a long farewell to truth ; 
That world corrifpts the noblest soul. 

Ah, joyous season! when the mind 
Dares all things boldly but to lie; 

When thought ere spoke is unconfined, 
And sparkles in the placid eye. 

Not so in Man's maturer years, 
When Man himself is but a tool ; 

When interest sways our hopes and fean 
And all must love and hate by rule. 

With fools in kindred vice the same, 
. We learn at length our faults to blend 
And those, and those alone, may claim 
The prostituted name of friend. 

Such is the common lot of man : 
Can we then 'scape from lolly free? 

Can we reverse the general plan, 
Nor be what all in turn must be ? 

No ; for myself, so dark my fate 

Through every turn of life hath been ; 

Man and the world so much I hate, 
I care not when I quit the scene. 

But thou, with spirit frail and light, 
Wilt shine awhile, and pass away; 

As glow-worms sparkle through the night, 
Bat dare not stand the test of day. 

Alas! whenever folly calls 

Where parasites and princes meet, 
• For cherish'd first in royal halls, 

The welcome vices kindly greet) 



Ev'n now thou 'it nightly seen to add 
One insect to the fluttering crowd; 

And still thy trifling heart is glad 

To join the vain, and court the proud. 

There dost thou glide from fair to fair, 
Still simpering on with eager haste, 

As flies along the gay parterre, 

That taint the flowers they scarcely taste 

But say. what nymph will prize the flame 
Which seems, as marshy vapours move, 

To flit along from dame to dame, 
An ignis-fatuus gleam of love ? 

What friend for thee, howe'er inclined, 
Will deign to own a kindred care? 

Who will debase his manly mind, 
For friendship eveiy fool may share? 

In time forbear; amidst the throng 
No more so base a thing be seen ; 

No more so idly pass along : 

Be something, any thing, but — mean. 



LINES INSCRIBED UPON A CUP 
FORMED FROM A SKULL.8 

Start not — nor deem my spirit fled: 

In me behold the only skull, 
From which, unlike a living head, 

Whatever flows is never dull. 

I lived, I loved, I quafTd, like thee: 
1 died: let earth my bones resign, 

Fill up — thou canst not injure me; 
The wonn hath fouler lips than thine. 

Better to hold the sparkling grape, 

Than nurse the earth-wonn's slimy brood, 

And circle in the goblet's shape 

The drink of Gods, than reptile's food. 

Where once my wit, perchance, hath shone 

In aid of others' let me shine; 
And when, alas! our brains are gone, 

What nobler substitute than wine? 

Quaff while thou canst; another race, 
W r hen thou and thine, like me, are sped 

May rescue thee from earth's embrace, 
And rhyme and revel with the dead. 



230 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Why no — since through life's little day 
O.ir heads such sad effects produce? 

lUv.eem'd from worms and wasting clay, 
This chance is theirs, to be of use. 

Newstead Abbey, \i 



WELL ! THOU ART HAFPY.9 

Well! thou art happy, and I feel 
That I should thus be happy too ; 

For still my heart regards thy weal 
Warmly, as it was wont to do. 

Thy husband 's blest— and 't will impart 
Some pangs to view his happier lot: 

Bat let them pass— Oh! how my heart 
Would hate him if he loved thee not! 

When late I saw thy favourite child, 
I thought my jealous heart would break ; 

But when the unconscious infant smiled, 
1 kiss'd it for its mother's sake. 

I kiss'd it, — and repress'd my sighs, 

Its father in its face to see ; 
But then it had its mother's eyes, 

And they were all to love and me. 

Marv, adieu! I must away: 
While thou art blest I '11 not repine; 

But near thee I can never stay; 

My heart would soon again be thine. 

I dcem'd that time, I deem'd that pride 
Had quench'd at length my boyish flame; 

Nor knew, till seated by thy side, 

My heart in all, — save hope,— the same. 

Yet was I calm : I knew the time 

My breast would thrill before thy look; 

But now to tremble were a crime — 
We met, — and not a nerve was shook. 

I .saw thee gaze upon my face, 
Yet meet with no confusion there: 

One only feeling could'st thou trace; 
Tk-j sullen calmness of despair. 

Awa; ! away! my early dream 
Remembrance never must awake: 

On! where is Lethe's fabled stream? 
My foolish heart, be still, or break. 

November 2, 18C 



INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT 
OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG.w 

When some proud son of man returns to earth, 
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, 
The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, 
And storied urns record who rests below ; 
When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, 
N ot what he was, but what he should have beer. 
But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, 
The first to welcome, foremost to defend, 
Whose honest heart is still his master's own, 
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for hiu 

alone, 
Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, 
Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: 
While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven 
And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. 
Oh man ! thou feeble tenant of an hour, 
Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, 
Who knows thee well must quit thee witt 

disgust, 
T>egraded mass of animated dust! 
Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, 
Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit ! 
By nature vile, ennobled but by name. 
Each kindred brute might bid thee blush foi 

shame. 
Ye ! who perchance behold this simple urn, 
Pass on — it honours none you wish to mourn 
To mark a friend's remains these stones arise , 
1 never knew but one, — and here he lies. 

Newstead Abbey, November 30, 180ft 



TO A LADY, 

ON BEING ASKED MY REASON FOR QU1TTIN 
ENGLAND IN THE SPRING. 

When Man, expell'd from Eden's bowers, 
A moment linger'd near the gate, 

Each scene recall'd the vanish'd hours, 
And bade him curse his future fate. 

But wandering on through distant climes, 
He learnt to bear his load of grief ; 

Just gave a sigh to other times, 
And found in busier scenes relief. 

Thus, lady ' will it be with me, 

And I must view thy charms no more; 

For, while 1 linger near to thee, 
I sigh for all I knew before. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



231 



ta Sight I shall he surely wise 
L'icuping from temptation's snare, 

[ o.n not view my paradise 

Without the wish of dwelling there. 

December 2, 1808. 



REMIND ME NOT, REMIND ME NOT 

Remind me not, remind me not, 
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours, 
When all my soul was given to thee; 
Hours that may never, be forgot, 
Till time unnerves our vital powers, 
And thou and I shall cease to be. 

Can I forget — canst thou forget 

When playing with thy golden hair, 

How quick thy fluttering heart did move? 
Oh ! by my soul, I see thee yet, 

With eyes so languid, breast so fair, 
And lips, though silent, breathing love. 

When thus reclining on my breast. 
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet, 
As half reproach'd yet raised desire, 
ind still we near and nearer prest, 
And still our glowing lips would meet, 
As if in kisses to expire. 



THERE WAS A TIME. I NEED VO'f 
NAME. 

There was a time, I need not name, 

Since it will ne'er forgotten be, 
When all our feelings were the same 

As still my soul hath been to thee. 

And from (hat hour when first thy tongue 
Confess 'd a love which equall'd mine, 

Though many a grief my heart hath wrung, 
Unknown and thus unfelt by thine, 

None, none hath sunk so deep as this— 
To think how all that love hath flown ; 

Transient as every faithless kiss, 
But transient in thy breast alone. 

And yet my heart some solace knew, 
When late I heard thy lips declare, 

In accents once imagined true, 

Remembrance of the days that were. 

Ves ; my adored, yet most unkind ! 

Though thou wilt never love again, 
To me 'tis doubly sweet to find 

Remembrance of that love remain. 

Yes ! 'tis a glorious thought to me, 

Nor longer shall my soul repine, 
Whate'er thou art or e'er shalt be, 

Thou hast been dearly, solely mine. 



dnd then those pensive eyes would close, 
And bid their lids each other seek, 
Veiling the azure orbs below; 
While their long lashes' darken'd gloss 
Seem'd stealing o'er thy brilliant cheek, 
Like raven's plumage smooth'd on snou 

I u-eamt last night onr love return 'd, 
And, sooth to say, that very dream 
Was sweeter in its phantasy, 
Than if for other hearts I burn'd, 
For eyes that ne'er like thine could b am 
Tn rapture's wild reality. 

Then tell me not, remind me not, 

Of hours which, though for ever gone, 
Oan still a pleasing dream restore, 
Til' thou and I shall be forgot, 

And senseless as the mouldering stone 
Which ^Us that we shall be no more. 



AND WILT THOU WEEP WHEN i 
AM LOW? 

An d wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again : 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 

My heart is sad, my hopes are gone, 

My blood runs coldly through my breast 

And when I perish, thou alone 
Wilt sigh above my place of rest. 

And yet, methinks, a gleam of peace 

Doth through my cloud of anguish shine 

And for awhile my sorrows cease, 
To know thy heart hath felt for mine. 



232 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Oh lady . blessed be that tear — 
It falls for one who cannot weep : 

Such precious drops are doubly dear 
To those whose eyes no tear may steep. 

Sweet lady ! once my heart was warm 
With every feeling soft as thine ; 
ut beauty's self hath ceased to charm 
A wretch created to repine. 

Yet wilt thou weep when I am low ? 

Sweet lady ! speak those words again ; 
Yet if they grieve thee, say not so — 

I would not give that bosom pain. 



There we find — do we not ? — in the flow of 

the soul, 
That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 

When the box of Pandora was open'd on earth, 
And Misery's triumph commenced over Mirth, 
Hope was left, — was she not ? — but the goblet 

we kiss, 
And care not for Hope, who are certain of bliss 

Long life to the grape ! for when summer u 

flown, 
The age of our nectar shall gladden our own 
We must die — who shall not? — May our sin? 

be forgiven, 
And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 



FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 



Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart 

to its core ; 
Let us drink! — who would not. 4 — since, 

through life's varied round, 
In the goblet alone no deception is found. 

I have tiied in its turn all that life can supply ; 
I have bask'd in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 
I have loved) — who has not? — but what 

heart can declare, 
That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 

In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in 

its spring, 
And dreams that aifection can never take wing, 
I had friends ! — who has not ? — but what 

tongue will avow, 
That friends, rosy wine! are so faithful as thou? 

The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
Friendship shifts with the sunbeam — thou 

never canst change : 
1'hou grow'st old — who does not? — but on 

earth what appears, 
Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with 

its years ? 

Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, 
Should a rival bow down to our idol below, 
We are jealous! — who's not? — thou hast no 
such alloy ; [enjoy. 

For the more that enjoy thee, the more we 

Then the season of youth and its vanities past 
For refuge wc fly to the goblet at last ; 



STANZAS TO A LADY, ON LEAVING 
ENGLAND. 

'Tis clone — and shivering in the gale 
The bark unfurls her snowy sail ; 
And whistling o'er the bending mast, 
Loud sings on high the fresh'ning blast ; 
And I must from this land be gone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

But could I be what I have been, 
And could I see what I have seen — 
Could I repose upon the breast 
Which once my warmest wishes blest- 
I should not seek another zone 
Because I cannot love but one. 

'Tis long since I beheld that eye 
Which gave me bliss or misery , 
And I have striven, but in vain, 
Never to think of it again : 
For though I fly from Albion, 
I still can only love but one. 

As some lone bird, without a mate, 
My weary heart is desolate ; 
I look around, and cannot trace 
One friendly smile or welcome face, 
And ev'n in crowds am still alone, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

And I will cross the whitening foan\ 
And I will seek a foreign home ; 
Till I forget a false fair face. 
I ne'er shall find a resting-place ; 
My own dark thoughts I cannot shu* 
But ever love, and love but one. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



233 



The poorest, veriest wretch on earth 
Still rinds some hospitable hearth, 
Where friendship's or love's softer glow 
May smile in joy or soothe in woe; 
But friend or leinan I have none, 
Because I cannot love but one. 

I go — but wheresoe'er I flee, 
I'here's not an eye will weep for me; 
There's not a k'nd congenial heart, 
Where I can claim the meanest part ; 
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone, 
Wilt sigh, although I love but one. 

To think of every early scene, 

Of what we are, and what we've been. 

Would whelm some softer hearts with woe— 

But mine, alas ! has stood the blow; 

Vet still beats on as it begun, 

And never truly loves but one. 

And who that dear loved one may be 
Is not for vulgar eyes to see, 
And why that early love was crost, 
Thou know'st the best, I feel the most ; 
But few that dwell beneath the sun 
Have loved so long, and loved but one. 

I 've tried another's fetters too. 
With charms perchance as fair to view; 
And I would lain have loved as well, 
But some unconquerable spell 
Forbade my bleeding breast to own 
A kindred care for aught but one 

"T would soothe to take one lingering view. 
And bless thee in my last adieu ; 
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep 
For him that wanders o'er the deep ; 
His home, his hope, his youth are gone, 
Yet still he loves, and loves but one. 



But "vhcresoe'er 1 now may roam, 

Through scorching clime, and varied sea. 

Though Time restore me to my home, 
I ne'er shall bend mine eyes on thee 

On thee, in whom at once conspire, 

All charms which heedless hearts canuuvn 

Whom but to see is to admire, 

And, oh ! forgive the word — to love. 

Forgive the word, in one who ne'er 
With such a word can more offend, 

And since thy heart I cannot share, 
Believe me, what I am, thy friend. 

And who so cold as look on thee, 
Thou lovely wand'rer, and be less? 

Nor be, what man should ever be, 
The friend of Beauty in distress? 

Ah ! who would think that form had past 
Through Danger's most destructive rath, 

Had braved the death-wing'd tempest's bia^st, 
And 'scaped a tyrant's fiercer wrath? 

Lady! when I shall view the walls 
Where free Byzantium once arose, 

And Stamboul's Oriental halls 

The Turkish tyrants now enclose ; 

Though mightiest in the lists of fams. 

That glorious city still shall be . 
Cn me 'twill hold a de» r -'" claim, 

As spot of thy nativity : 

And though I bid thee now farewell, 
When I behold that wondrous scer.a, 

Since where thou art I may not dwel 1 , 
'Tw r ill soothe to be, wheie thouha?f &•-=•".* 
3cDtem.br.', •' 5 'V 



TO FLORENCE. 

On Lady ! when I left the shore, 

The distant shore which gave me birth, 

I hardly thought to grieve once more, 
To quit another spot of earth: 

Yet here, amid this barren isle, 

Where panting Nature droops the head, 
Where only thou art seen to smile, 

I view my parting hour with dread. 

Though far from Albin's craggy shore, 
Divided by the dark blue main; 

4 few, brief, rolling, seasons o'er, 
Pcrch.ince I view her cliffs again : 



STANZAS 

COMPOSED DURING A THUNDER-STOP**.'* 

Chili- and mirk is the nightly blast, 
Where Pindus' mountains rise, 

And angry clouds are pouring fast 
The vengeance of the skies. 

Our guides are gone, our hope is lost, 

And lightnings, as they play, 
But show where rocks our path have crost 

Or gild the torrent's spray. 



234 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



[s yon a cot I saw, though low ? 

When lightning broke the gloom — 
How welcome were its shade! — ah, no . 

*T is but a Turkish tomb. 

Through sounds of foaming waterfalls, 

I hear a voice exclaim — 
My way-worn countryman, who calls 

On distant England's name 

A shot is fired — by foe or friend ? 

Another — 'tis to tell 
The mountain peasants to descend, 

And lead us where they dwell. 

Oh ! who in such a night will dare 

To tempt the wilderness ? 
And who 'mid thunder peals can hoar 

Our signal of distress? 

And who that heard our shouts would rise, 

To try the dubious road? 
Nor rather deem from nightly ?ries 

That outlaws were abroad 

Clouds burst, skies flash, oh, dreadful hoi.r ! 

More fiercely pours the storm ' 
Vet here one thought has still the power 

To keep my bosom warm 

While wand'ring through each broken path 

O'er brake and craggy biow ; 
While elements exhaust their wrath, 

Sweet Florence, where art thou ? 

Not on the sea, not on the sea, 
Thy hark hath long been gone : 

Oh, may the storm that pours on me, 
Bow down my Lead alone ! 

Full swiftly blew the swift Siroc, 

When 'ast I press'd thy lip; 
And long ere now, with foaming shock, 

Impell'd thy gallant ship 

Now thou art safe; nay, long ere now 
Hast trod the shore of Spain ; 

T were hard if aught so fair as thou 
Should lingf on the main. 

And since I now remember thee 

In darkness and in dread, 
As in those hours of revelry 

Which mirth and music sped ; 



Do thou, amid the fair white t/alls 

If Cadiz yet be free, 
At times from out her latticed hal'p, 

Look o'er the dark blue sea ; 

Then think upon Calypso's isles, 

Endear'd by days gone by; 
To others give a thousand smiles 

To me a single sigh. 

And when the admiring circle mark 

The paleness of thy face, 
A half-form'd tear, a transient spark 

Of melancholy grace, 

Again thou 'It smile, and blushing shun 

Some coxcomb's raillery; 
Nor own for once thou thought' st on one. 

Who ever thinks on thee. 

Though smile and sigh alike are vain, 

When sever'd hearts repine, 
My spirit flies o'er mount and main, 

And mourns in search of thine. 



STANZAS 

WRITTEN IN PASSING THE AMBRACIAH 
GULF. 

Through cloudless skies, in silvery sheen, 
Full beams the moon on Actium's coast; 

And on these waves, for Egypt's queen, 
The ancient world was won and lost. 

And now upon the scene I look, 

The azure grave of many a Roman ; 

Where stern Ambition once forsook 
His wavering crown to follow woman. 

Florence! whom I will love as well 

As ever yet was said or sung, 
(Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell) 

Whilst thou art fair and I am young; 

Sweet Florence ! those were pleasant times, 
When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes. 

Had bards as many realms as rhymes, 
Thy charms might raise new Antonies. 

Though fate forbids such things to be 
Yet, by thine eyes and ringlets curi'd ! 

I cannot lose a world for thee, 

But would not lose thee for a world. 

November 14. IM 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



235 



STANZAS. 

Do we not hear that youth is happiness — 

That all our after life can bring but pain? 
That all delights that can our being bless, 
When youth is o'er will ne'er return again? 
Then if this glowingtime but yield us bane, 
We must hereafter look to misery ! 

And we must see our years and pleasures 
wane, 
While constant scalding tears do swell our eye, 
And only pray to heaven that we may quickly 
die. 

Is this the life we cling to? This existence, 

For which we'd sacrifice our honest lame? 
I'd rather shun, than labour for subsistence, 

If this be all my toil and grief can claim. 

Oh! let me sink, at least, unstain'd with 
shame, 
And let m<? die in hopeless anguish now, 

And blank oblivion mantle o'ermy name, 
Rather than sorrow trace upon my brow 

The year on year in which my age and 
suffering grow ! 



ODE. 

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! 

Oh, shame to thy children and thee, 
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 

How wretched thy portion shall be ; 
Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 

A mockery that never shall die ; 
The curses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn 

Shall burden the winds of thy sky ; 
And proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurl'd 
The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the 

World. 
• Oh, where is thy spirit of yore, 

The spirit that breathed in thy dead, 
When gallantry's star was the beacon before, 

And honour the passion that led ? 
Thy storms have awaken'd their sleep. 

They groan from the place of their rest, 
Am' vrathlully murmur, and sullenly weep, 

To see the foul stain on thy breast ; 
For where is the glory thev lefttnee in trust? 
T is scatter'd in darkness, 'tis trampled in dust. 

Go. look through the kingdoms of earth, 
From Indus all round to the pole, 
*>nd something of goodness, of honour, and 
worth. 
Shall brighten the sins of the soul ; 



B-t thou art alone in thy shame, 
The world cannot liken thee there; 
Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy nam* 

Beyond the low reach of compare ; 
Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through 

time 
A proverb, a by-word, for treachery and crime 

While conquest illumined his sword, 
While yet in his prowess he stood, 
Thy praises still follow'd the steps of thj 
Lord, 
And welcomed the torrent of blood ; 
Though Tyranny sat on his crown, 
And wither'd the nations afar, 
Yet bright in thy view was that Despot's 
renown, 
'Till Fortune deserted his car ; 
Then, back from the Chieftain thou slunkest 

away — 
The foremost to insult, the first to betrav. 

Forgot were the feats he had done, 
The toils he had borne in thy cause ; 
Thou turned' st to worship a new rising sun, 
And waft other songs of applause : 
But the storm was beginning to lour, 
Adversity clouded his beam ; 
And honour and faith were the brag of an 
hour, 
And loyalty's self but a dream : 
To him thou hadst banish'd thy vows were 

restored, 
And the first that had scoffd were the first 
that adored 

What tumult thus burdens the air? 

What throng thus encircles his throne? 
'Tis the shout of delight, 'tis the millions that 
swear 
His sceptre shall rule them alone. 
Reverses shall brighten their zeal, 
Misfortune shall hallow his name, 
And the world that pursues him shall mourn- 
fully feel 
How quenchless the spirit and flame 
That Frenchmen will breathe, when thcii 

. hearts are on fire, 
For the Hero they love, and the Chief they 
admire. 

Their Hero has rush'd to the field : 
His laurels are cover'd with shade. 
But where is the spirit that never ihoukt 
yield, 
The loyalty never to fade? 



236 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



In a moment desertion and guile 
Abandon'd him up to the ibe ; 
The dastards that flourish' d and grew at his 
smile, 
Forsook and renounced him in woe; 
And the millions that swore they would perish 

to save, 
Behold him a fugitive, captive, and slave. 

The savage all wild in his glen 
Is nobler and better than thou ; 
Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men, 
Such perfidy blackens thy brow. 
If thou wert the place of my birth. 
At once from thy arms would I sever; 
T 'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth, 

And quit thee lor ever and ever ; 
And thinking of thee in my long after years, 
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my 
tears. 

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul ! 
Oh, shame to thy children and thee ! 
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall, 
How wretched thy portion shall be ! 
Derision shall strike thee forlorn, 
A mockery that never shall die ; 
The curses of Hate and the hisses of Scorn 

Shall burden the winds of thy sky ; 
And proud o'er thy ruin for ever be hurl'd 
The laughter of Triumph, the jeers of the 
World. 



To the health of the Woman, who free&«^« 
and life too 
Has risk'd for her Husband, we '11 pay the 
just debt. 
And hail with applauses the Heroine a~>d 
Wife too, 
The constant, the noble, the fair Lavalette. 

Her foes have awarded, in impotent malice, 
To their captive adoom which all Europe 
abhors, 
And turns from the slaves of the priest- J 
haunted palace, 
While those who replaced them there blush 
for their cause. 
But, in ages to come, when the blood-tarnish'd 
glory 
Of dukes and of marshals in darkness hath 
set, 
Hearts shall throb, eyes shall glisten, at reading 
the story 
Of the fond self-devotion of fair Lavalette. 



MADAME LAVALETTE. 

Let Edinburgh Critics o'erwhelm with their 
praises 
Their Madame de Stael, and their famed 
La Pinasse : 
Like a meteor, at best, proud philosophy blazes, 
And the fame of a Wit is as brittle as glass: 
But cheering the beam, and unfading the 
splendour 
Of thy torch, Wedded Love ! and it never 
has yet 
Shone with lustre more holy, more pure, or 
more tender, 
Than it sheds on the name of the fair Lava- 
lette. 
Then fill high the wine-cup, e'en Virtue shall 
bless it, 
And hallow the goblet which foams to her 
name; 
The warm lip of Beauty shall piously press it, 
And Hymen shall honour the pledge to her 
fame: 



FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. 

Oh ! land of my fathers and mine, 
The noblest, the best, and the bravest ; 

Heart-broken, and lorn, I resign 

The joys and the hopes which thou gavesl 

Dear mother of Freedom ! farewell ! 

Even Freedom is irksome to me ; 
Be calm, throbbing heart, nor rebel, 

For reason approves the decree. 

Did I kvve? — Be my witness, high Heaven 
That mark'd all my frailties and fears; 

I adored — but the magic is riven ; 

Be the memory expunged by my tears ! • 

The moment of rapture, how bright! 

How dazzling, how transient its glare ! 
A comet in splendour and flight, 

The herald of darkness and care. 

Recollections of tenderness gone. 
Of pleasure no more to return ; 

A wanderer, an outcast, atone, 

Oh ! leave me, untortured, to mourn. 

Where — where shall my heart find repose 
A refuge from memory and grief! 

The gangrene, wherever it goes, 
Disdains a fictitious relief. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 23 1 


Could I trace out that fabulous stream, 
Which washes remembrance away, 

Again might the eye of Hope gleam 
The dawn of a happier day. 


Was it well, between anger and love, 
Tr.at pride the stern umpire should Dfl ; 

And that heart should its flintiness piove 
On none, till it proved it on me ? 


Hath wii-<» an oblivious power? 

Can it pluck out the sting from the brain ? 
The draught might beguile for an hour, 

But still leaves behind it the pain. 


And, ah.' was it well, when I Imelt, 
Thy tenderness so to conceal, 

That witnessing all which I felt, 
Thy sternness forbad thee to feel. 


Can distance or time heal the heart 
That bleeds from the innermost pore ? 

Or intemperance lessen its smart, 
Or a cerate applj .> its sore ? 


Then, when the dear pledge of our love 
Look'd up to her mother and smiled. 

Say, was there no impulse that strove 
T.) back the appeal of the child ? 


If I rush to the ultimate pole. 

The form I adore will be there, 
A. phantom to torture my soul, 

And mock at my bootless despair. 


That boson, so callous and chill, 
So treacherous to love and to me : 

Ah ! felt it no heart-rending thrill, 
As it turn'd from the innocent's plea f 


The zephyr of eve, as it flies, 

Will whisper her voice in mine ear, 

And, moist with her sorrows and sighs, 
Demand for Love's altar a tear. 


That ear, which was open to all, 
Was ruthlessly closed to its lord ; 

Those accents, whicn fiends would enthral, 
Refused a sweet peace -giving word. 


And still in the dreams of the day, 
And still in the visions of night, 

Will fancy her beauties display, 
Disordering, deceiving the sight. 


And think st thou, dear object, — for still 
To my bosom thou only art life, 

And spite of my pride and my will, 
I bless thee, I woo thee, my wife ! 


Hence, vain fleeting images, hence ! 

Grim phantoms that 'wilder my brain, 
Mere frauds upon reason and sense, 

Engender'd by folly and paiu ! 


Oh ! think' st thou that absence shall bring 
The balm which will give thee relief? 

Or time, on its life-wasting wing, 
An antidote yield for thy grief? 


Did I swear on the altar of Heaven 

My fealty to her I adored ? 
"Hd she give back the vows I had given. 

And plight back the plight of her lord ? 


Thy hopes will be frail as the dream 

Which cheats the long moments of nigh^ 

But melts in the glare of the beam 
Which breaks from the portal of light; 


if I err'd for a moment from love, 

The error I flew to retrieve ; 
Kiss'd the heart I had wounded, and strove 

To soothe, ere it ventured to grieve. 


For when on thy babe's smiling face 
Thy features and mine intertwined 

The finger of Fancy shall trace, 
The spell shall resistlessly bind. 


Did I bend, who had ne'er bent before? 

Did I sue, who was used to command ? 
Love forced me to weep an«? implore, 

And pride was too weak iu withstand. 


The dimple that dwells on her cheek. 

The glances that beam from her eye, 
The lisp as she struggles to speaK, 

Shall dash every smile with a sigh. 


Then why should one frailty, like mine, 
Repented, and wash'd with my tears, 

Erase those impressions divine, 
The faith and affection of years ? 


Then I, though whole oceans between 
Their billowy barriers may rear, 

Shall triumph, though far and unseen, 
Unconscious, uneaU'd, shall be there 



238 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



The cruelty sprang not from thee, 
'Twas foreign and foul to thy heart, 

That levell'd its arrow at me, 
And fix'd the incurable smart 



I ask it — I seek it — in vain — 

From Ind to the northernmo>t pcl« 

Unheeded — unpitied — complain, 
And pour out the grief of my soul. 



Ah, no! 'twas another than thine 
The hand which assail'd my repose ; 

It struck — and too fatally — mine 
The wound, and its offspring of woes. 

They hated us both who destroy'd 
The buds and the promise of Spring ; 

For who, to replenish the void, 

New ties, new affections can bring? 



What bosom shall heave when I s'gh ? 

What tears shall respond when I weep* 
To my wailings what wail shall reply ? 

What eye mark the vigils 1 keep? 

Even thou, as thou learnest to prate, 
Dear babe — while remotely I rove — 

Shall count it a duty to hate 

Where nature commands thee to lovt. 



Alas ! to the heart that is rent 

What nostrums can soundness restore ? 
Or what, to the bow over-bent, 

The spring which it carried before ? 

The rent heart will fester and bleed, 
And fade like the leaf in the blast ; 

The crack'd yew no more will recede, 
Though vigorous and tough to the last. 

I wander — it matters not where; 

No clime can restore me my peace, 
Or snatch from the frown of despair, 

A cheering — a fleeting release ! 

How slowly the moments will move ! 

How tedious the footsteps of years ! 
When valley and mountain and grove 

Shall change but the scene of my tears 

The classic memorials which nod, 
The spot dear to science and lore, 

Sarcophagus, temple, and sod, 
Excite me and ravish no more. 



The foul tongue of malice shall peal 
My vices, my faults, in thine ear, 

And teach thee, with demon-like zeai, 
A father's affection to fear. 

And oh ! if in some distant day 

Thine ear may be struck with my lyre, 

And nature's Hue index may say, 
" It may be — it ru^st be my sire!" 

Perchance to thy prejudiced eye 
Obnoxious my form may appear, 

Even nature be deaf to my sigh, 
And duty refuse me a tear. 

Yet sure in this isle, where my songs 
Have echoed from mountain and dell, 

Some tongue the sad tale of my wrongs 
With grateful emotion may telL 

Some youtn, who had valued my lay, 
And warm'd o'er the tale as it ran, 

To thee e'en may venture to say, 
"His frailties were those of a man. 



The stork on the perishing wall 
Is better and happier than I; 

Content in his ivy-built hall ; 

He hangs out his home in the sky. 

But houseless and heartless I rove, 
My bosom all bared to the wind, 

i'hc victim of pride and of love, 
I seek — but, ah ! where can I find ? 

I seek what no tribes can bestow — 
I ask what no clime can impart — 

A charm which can neutralise woe, 
And dry up the tears of the heart 



They were j they were human, but sweli . 

By envy, and malice, and scorn, 
Each feeling of nature rebell'd, 

And hated the mask it had worn. 

Though human the fault — how severe, 

How harsh the stern sentence pronouliu-cA 

E'en pride dropp'd a niggardly tear, 
My love as it grimly denounced. 

Tis past: the great struggle is oer; 

The war of my bosom subsides : 
And passion's strong current no mora 

Impels its impetuous tides. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



239 



T is past : my affections give way ; 

The tics of my nature are broke; 
The summons of pride I obey, 

And break Love's degenerate yoke. 

I fly, like a bird of the air, 

In search of a home and a rest; 

A balm for the sickness of care, 
A bliss for a bosom unblest. 

And swift as the swallow that floats, 
And bold as the eagle that soars, 

Y'et dull as the owlet, whose notes 
The dark fiend of midnight deplores ' 

Where gleam the gay splendours of East, 
The dance and the bountiful board, 

I '11 bear me to Luxury's feast, 
To exile the form I adored. 

In full brimming goblets I '11 quaff 
The sweets of the Lethean spring, 

And join in the Bacchanal's laugh, 
And trip in the fairy-form'd ring. 

Where pleasure invites will I roam, 
To drown the dull memory of care, 

An exile from hope and from home, 
A fugitive chased by despair. 

Farewell to thee, land of the brave ! 

Farewell to thee, land of my birth ! 
When tempests around thee shall rave, 

Still — still may they homage thy worth 

Wife, infant, and country, and friend, 
Ye wizard my fancy no more, 

1 Hy from your solace, and wend 
To weep on some kindlier shore. 

The grim-visaged fiend of the storm 
That raves in this agonized breast, 

Still raises his pestilent form, 

Till Death calm the tumult to rest 



TO MY DAUGHTER, 

ON THK MORNING OF HElt BIRTH. 

Hail to this teeming stage of strife ! 
Hail, lovely miniature of life! 
Pilgrim of many cares untold! 
Lamb of the world'* extended fold ! 
Fountain of hopes, and doubts, and fears ' 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years ! 



How could I fainly bend the knee, 
And turn idolater to thee ! 

'T is nature's worship — felt — confcs.»\l, 
Far as the life which warms the breast- 
The sturdy savage, 'midst his clan, 
The rudest portraiture of man, 
In trackless woods and bouuiless plains, 
Where everlasting wihlness reigns, 
Owns the still throb — the secret stait— 
The hidden impulse of the heart. 

Dear babe ! ere yet upon thy years 
The soil of human vice appears, 
Ere passion hath disturb'd thy cheek, 
And prompted what thou darest not speak. 
Ere that pale lip is blanch'd with care, 
Or from those eyes shoot fierce despair, 
Would I could wake thy untuned ear, 
And gust it with a father's prayer. 

But little reck'st thou, oh my child ; 
Of travail on life's thorny wild! 
Of all the dangers, all the woes, 
Each tottering footstep which enclose; 
Ah, little reck'st thou of the scene 
So darkly wrought, that spreads between 
The little all we here can find, 
And the dark mystic sphere behind ! 

Little reck'st thou, my earliest born, 
Of clouds which gather round thy morn. 
Of arts to lure thy soul astray, 
Of snares that intersect thy way, 
Of secret foes, of friends untrue, 
Of fiends who stab the hearts they woo- 
Little thou reck'st of this sad store — 
Would thou might' st never reck them iiior* 

But thou wilt burst this transient sleep, 

And thou wilt wake, my babe, to weep ; 

The tenant of a frail abode, 

Thy tears must flow as mine have flow'd; 

Beguiled by follies every day, 

Sorrow must wash the faults away, 

And thou may'st wake perchance to prove 

The pang of unrequited love. 

Unconscious babe, thougti en ihat brow 
No half-fledged misery nestles now, 
Scarce round thy placid lips a smile 
Maternal fondness shall begnile, 
Ere the moist footsteps of a tear 
Shall plant their dewy traces there. 
And prematmoly pave the way 
For sorrows of a riper day 



240 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Oh ! could a father's prayer repel 

The eye's sad grief, the bosom's swell ; 

Or could a father hope to bear 

A darling child's allotted care, 

Then thou, my babe, shouldst slumber still, 

Exempted from all human ill, — 

A parent's love thy peace should free, 

And ask its wounds again for thee. 

Sleep on, my child ; the slumber brief 
Too soon shall melt away to grief, 
Too soon the dawn of svoe shall break, 
And briny rills bedew that cheek; 
Too soon' shall sadness quench those eyes, 
That breast be agonized with sighs, 
And anguish o'er the beams of noon 
Lead clouds of care, — ah, much too soon ! 

Soon wilt thou reck of cares unknc vn, 
Of wants and sorrows all their own ; 
Of many a pang and many a woe. 
That thy dear sex alone can know ; 
Of many an ill, untold, unsung. 
That will not — may not find a tongue, 
But kept conceal'd without control, 
Spread the fell cancers of the soul. 

Yet be thy lot, my babe, more blest, 
May joy still animate thy breast; 
Still, midst thy least propitious days, 
Shedding its rich inspiring rays ; 
A father's heart shall daily bear 
Thy name upon its secret prayer, 
And as he seeks his last repose, 
Thine image ease life's parting throes. 

Then hail, sweet miniature of life ! 
Hail to this teeming stage of strife! 
Pilgrim of many cares untold ! 
Lamb of the world's extended fold : 
Fountain of hopes and doubts and fears . 
Sweet promise of ecstatic years ! 
How could I fainly bend the knee, 
And turn idolater to thee ! 



ODE 
r - THE ISLAND OF ST. HELENA. 

" ace to thee, isle of the ocean ! 

Hail to thy breezes and billows! 
' liere, rolling its tides in perpetual devo- 
tion, 

The white wave its plumy surf pillows ! 



Rich shall the chaplet be history shall weat 

thee ; [brov. 

Whose undying verdure shall bloom on tl»j 

WV en nations that now in obscurity leave thee 

To the wand of oblivion alternately bow! 
Unchanged in thy glory — unstain'd in thj 

fame, 
The homage of ages shall hallow thy name. 

Hail to the Chief who reposes 

On thee the rich weight of his glory ! 
When fill'd to its limit, life's chronicle 
closes, 
His deeds rhall be sacred in story ! 
His prowess shall rank with the first of all 
ages, [worth — 

And monarchs hereafter shall bow to his 
The songs of the poets — the lessons of sages 
Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the 
earth. 
The meteors of history before thee shall fall, 
Eclipsed bv thy splendour, thou meteor of 
Gaul. 

Hygeian breezes shall fan thee, 

Island of glory resplendent! 
Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man 
thee, 
Tribes, as thy waves, independent ! 
On thy far-gleaming strand the wanderer shah 
stay him, [nown'd 

To snatch a brief glance at a spot so re- 
Each turf, and each stone, and each cliff shall 
delay him, [thy ground! 

Where the step of thy Exile hath hallow'd 
From him shalt thou borrow a lustre divine, 
The wane of his sun was the rising of thine, 

Whose were the hands that enslaved hir- * 
Handswhich had weakly withstood him — 
Nations which, while they had oftentimes 
braved him. 
Never till now had subdued him ! 
Monarchs, who oft to his clemency stooping 
Received back their crowns from the plun- 
der of war — [drooping 
The vanquisher vanquish'd, the eagle nom 
Would quench with their sternness the raj 
of his star , 
But clothed 'n new splendour the glory appears 
And rules the ascendant, the planet of years 

Pure be the health of thy mountains ' 
Rich be the green of thy pastures! 

Limpid and lasting the streams of thy foun 
tains 
Thine annals un.stain'l by disasters! 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



241 



Supreme in the ocean a rich altar swelling:, 
Whose shrine shall be hail'd by the prayers 
of mankind — [Fag — 

Thy rock-beach the rage of the tempest repel I- 
The wide-wasting contest of wave and of 
wind — 
AWt on tiy V.uleirsnts long be unfurl'd 
The eagle tbat decks thee, the pride of the 
world. 

Fade shall the lily now blooming: 

Where is the hand which can nurse it? 
Nations who rear'd it shall watch its con- 
suming. 
Untimely mildews shall curse it. 
Then shall the violet that blooms in the valleys 

Impart to the gale its reviving perfume ; 
Then when the spirit of Liberty rallies, 

To chant forth its anthems on Tyranny's 
tomb, [break forth, 

Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should 
Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north. 



TO THE LILY OF FRANCE. 

Ere thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, 
False emblem of innocence, stay, 

And yield, as thou fadest, for the use of man- 
kind, 
The lesson that marks thy decay. 

Thou wert fair as the beam of the morn, 

• And rich as the pride of the mine : 
Thy charms are all faded, and hatred and 
scorn, 
The curses of freedom, are thine. 

Thou wert gay in the smiles of the world, 
Thy shadow protection and power, 

But now thy bright blossom is shrivel'd and 
curi'd, 
The grace of thy country no more. 

Por Corniption hath fed on thy leaf, 
And Bigotry weaken'd thy stem; 

Now those who have fear'd thee shall smile 
at thy grief, 
And those who adored thee condemn. 

The valley that gave thee thy birth, 
Shall weep for the hope of its soil ; 

The legions tliat fought for thy beauty and 
worth, 
Shall hasten to share in thy spoil. _ 



As a by-word, thy blossom shall be 
A mock and a jest among men, 

The proverb of slaves, and the sneer of th« 
free, 
In city, and mountain, and glen. 

Oh ! 't was Tyranny 's pestilent gale 
That scatter'd thy buds on the ground, 

That threw the blood-stain on thy virgin-whiu 
veil, 
And pierced thee with many a wound ! 

Then thy puny leaf shook to the wind, 
Thy stem gave its strength to the blast, 

Thy full bursting blossom its promise resign'd 
And fell to the storm as it pass'd. 

For no patriot vigour was there, 
No arm to support the weak flower, 

Destruction pursued its dark herald — Despair 
And wither 'd its grace in an hour. 

Yet there were who pretended to grieve, 
There were who pretended to save, 

Mere shallow empyrics, who came to deceir* 
To revel and sport on its grave. 

O thou land of the lily, in vain 

Thou strugglest to raise its pale head ! 

The faded bud never shall blossom again, 
The violet will bloom in its stead. 

A?, thou scatterest thy leaf to the wind, 
False emblem of innocence, stay, 

And yield, as thou fadest, for the use of ma* 
kind, 
This '.ssson to mark thy decay ! 



TO JESSY. 

THE FOLLOWING STANZAS WERE A»I)Bt»«KI 
BY LORD BVRON TO HIS LADY, A F8W 
MONTHS BEFORE THEIR SEPARATION. 

There is a mystic thread of life 

So dearly wreathed with mine alone, 

That Destiny's relentless knife 
At once must sever both or none. 

There is a form on which these eyes 
Have often gazed with fond delight; 

By day that form their joys supplies, 
And dreams restore it through the "yjfct 



242 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



There is a voice whose tones inspire 

Such thrills of rapture through my ore... t ; 

I would not hear a seraph choir, 

Unless that voice could join the rest 

There is a face whose blushes tell 
Affection's tale upon the cheek ; 

But, pallid at one fond farewell, 
Proclaims more love than words can speak. 

There is a lip which mine hath prest, 
And none had ever prest before, 

t vow'd to make me sweetly blest, 
And mine — mine only, press it more. 

There is a bo$om — all my own — 
Hath pillow' d oft this aching head ; 

K mouth which smiles on me alone, 
An eye whose tears with mine are shed. 

There are two hearts whose n jvements thrill 

In unison so closely sweet ! 
That, pulse to pulse responsive still, 

That both must heave — or cease to beat. 

There are two souls whose equal flow, 
In gentle streams so calmly run, 

That when they part — they part ! — ah, no ! 
They cannot part — those souls are one. 



Adventurers, with wit, but little *ense : — 
With coxcombry, but little sterling merit;— 

With little art, but plenty of pretence, 
May freely boast of all their sons inherit ! 

A great newspaper name ! which las f .s its day, 
And echoes out its brief successful hour, 

And then as feebly dies and flies away, 
Like the weak thunder of apassing shower' 

My garden and my song are worth all these ; 
The well-attuned duet which thrills and 
thrills, 
And ever and anon returns to please, 

Or glee W ;h swells to charm the hall it 
fills 

My flowers, my cabbages, my common-place 
But fragrant, and, what's more, productive 
beans, 
And many birds, to fill the narrow space, 
Which spreads within my skirt of ever 
greens. 

With some such songs as I have heard you 
sing, 

And all the little comforts, such as these. 
I 'd set at nought the court and every thing 

And live — at least I think so — quite at e?se 



LINES WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND. 

Oh ! give me but my garden and my song, 
With all the pleasures of a rustic home, 

And let the restless, fashionable throng 

Spend Spring in London, and the fall at 
Rome. 

Let self-styled Honour, and its gay career, 
Go comfortless, to float in Pleasure's wake ; 

Enjoyment must, indeed, be purchased dear, 
When ease must be. forsaken for its sake. 

Let tinsell'd Glory hallow whom it charms, 
And public palms attend Ambition's way, 

And let me scan the tillage of my farms, 
And watch my garden walls and shrubs in 
May. 

Let Diplomats go hover round a court, 
And your sage dandies govern princely airs; 

Proud if they make but honesty their sport, 
Wrapp'd in white cambric, and made up 
of snares. 



SONNET. 

What makes us shrink in horror from oui 
thought? 
What makes us shun the eyes of all man 

kind, 
As if we fear'd in every glance to find 
The ridicule we had too truly sought ? 
What makes us hate the world and cherish 

nought? 
What makes us fathom our own proper mind. 
And spurn our self-esteem, too late resign'd, 
Alas ! this lesson must be sadly taught ! 

The same consuming passion that will goad 
Our flagging energies to greater deeds. 

And still strew thorns upon the gloriou* 
road, 
To prick us, as the spectre yet recedes, 
And make our honours vainer as they swell. 
Tis Jealousy — the vilest fiend of Hell ! 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



243 



THE SPELL IS BROKE, THE CHARM 
IS FLOWN! 

WRITTEN AT ATHENS, JANUARY 16, 1810. 

The spell is broke, the charm is liown ' 
Ihus is it with life's litl'ul fever: 

We madly smile when we should groan ; 
Delirium is our best deceiver. 

Each lucid interval of thought 

Recalls the woes of Nature's charter, 

And he that acts as wise me.i ought, 
But lives, as saints have died, a martyr. 



WRITTEN AFTER SWIMMING FROM 
SESTOS TO ABVDOS. 

If, in the month of dark December, 

Leander, who was nightly wont 
(What maid will not the tale remember?) 

To cross thy stream, broad Hellespont ! 

[f, when the wintry tempest roar'd, 

He sped to Hero, notnmg loth, 
And thus of old thy current pour'd, 

Fair Venus ! how I pity both ! 

For me, degenerate modern wretch, 
Though in the genial mouth of May, 

My dripping limbs 1 faintly stretch, 
And think 1 've done a teat to-day. 

But since he cross'd the rapid tide, 
According to the doubt! ui story, 

To woo, — and — Lord knows what beside, 
And swam for Love, as I for Glory ; 

T were hard to say'who fared the best: 
Sad mortals ! thus the Gods still plague you ! 

He lost his labour, I my je»t; 

For he was drown'd, and I've the ague. 

MayS, 1810. 



LINES WRITTEN IN THE TRAVEL- 
LERS' BOOK AT ORCHOMENUS. 

IN THIS BOOK A TRAVELLER HAD WRITTEN:— 

" Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son depart 
To trace the birth and nursery of art: 
Noble his object, glorious is his aim ; 
He comes to Athens, and he writes his name." 



BENEATH WHICH LORD bVRON 
THE FOLLOWING" 



re* ft k arm 



The modest bard, like many a bard unknown, 
Rhymes on our names, but wisely hides his own ; 
But yet, whoe'er he be, to say no worse, 
His name would bring more credit than hit 
verse. 

1810. 



MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART 

Zeu'/} fjtov, tru,s a.ya,T6u. 

Maid of Athens, ere we part, 
Give, oh, give back my heart ! 
Or, since that has lelt my breast, 
Keep it now, and take the rest ! 
Hear my vow before I go, 
Zant (4.0V, a«.f kyrnxu. '•' 

By those tresses unconhned, 
Woo'd by each /Egean wind ; 
By those lids whose jetty triage 
Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; 
By those wild eyes like the roe, 
Zu% fjboVf au.f ayocvu. 

By that lip I long to taste ; 
By that zone-encircled waist; 
By all the token-flowers^ that tell 
What words can never speak so well ; 
By love's alternate joy and woe, 
Zcufi /xou, ffu; otyotva. 

Maid of Athens! I am gone: 
Think of me, sweet ! when alone. 
Though I fly to Istambol, 1 ^ 
Athens holds my heart, and soul : 
Can I cease to love thee? No! 
Zun (too, aa.( kycvxu. 

Athens, If la 



FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR 
LADY. 

Some say, fairest ladies, " Faint heart never 

won you ;" 
Though modest ye be, then, must modesty 

shun you? 
And shall brawling impudence boast in conceit 
Of those whispers of favour it ne'er should 

repeat ? 



244 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



THERE'S FASGINATION IN THY 
GLOWING EYE. 

There's fascination in thy glowing eye : 

There's anenchantmenton thy snowy brow: 
Voluptuous languor revels in thy sigh ; 

Thy smiles bespeak the rapture they avow. 
Thy neck was carved by beauty from her own ; 

Thy bosom moulded from her swelling 
bust — 
Thine arm was fashion'd for the toys of love ; 

Thy rounded figure for its sweetest play — 
Thy countenance was stolen from above, 

Or granted by some angel on the way ; 
And yet thy fate is toil : perchance e'en grief, 

A destiny still cherish'd in tby heart. 



LINES WRITTEN BENEATH A 
PICTURE. 

Dear object of defeated care! 

Though now of Love and thee bereft, 
To reconcile me with despair, 

Thine image and my tears are left. 

'T is said with Sorrow Time can cope ; 

But this I feel can ne'er be true : 
For by the death-blow of my Hope 

My Memory immortal grew. 

Athens, Januarj, 1811. 



TRANSLATION OF THE FAMOUS 
GREEK WAR SONG, 

M Aitm to,7^is raiv *EXXi|mw."1? 

Sons of the Greeks, arise ! 

The glorious hour's gone forth, 
And, worthy of such ties, 

Display who gave us birth. 



Sons of Greeks ! let us go 
In arms against the foe, 
Till their hated blood shall flow 
In a river past our feet. 



Then manfully despising 
The Turkish tyrant's yoke, 

Let your country see you rising, 
A.nd all her chains are broke. 



Brave shades of chiefs and sages, 

Behold the coming .strife ! 
Hellenes of past ages, 

Oh, start again to life ! 
At the sound of my trumpet, breaking 

Your sleep, oh, join with me ! 
And the seven-hill'd 18 city seeking, 

Fight, conquer, till we 're free. 

Sons of Greeks, &c 

Sparta, Sparta, why in slumbers 

Lethargic dost thou lie ? 
Awake, and join thy numbers 

With Athens, old ally! 
Leonidas recalling, 

That chief of ancient song, 
Who saved ye once from falling, 

The terrible ! the strong ! 
Who made that bold diversion 

In old Thermopylae, 
And warring with the Persian 

To keep his country free ; 
With his three hundred waging 

The battle, long he stood, 
And like a lion raging, 

Expired in seas of blood. 

Sons of Greeks, &e." 



TRANSLATION OF THE ROMAIC 

SONG, 

" Mtivio fti; 'tit' Ti^oXi. 
'ilgouorxrt! X«»j3»j," &C. 20 

I enter thy garden of roses, 21 

Beloved and fair Haidee, 
Each morning where Flora reposes, 

For surely I see her in thee. 
Oh, Lovely ! thus low I implore thee. 

Receive this fond truth from ray tongue, 
Which utters its song to adore thee, 

Yet trembles for what it has sung ; 
As the branch, at the bidding of Nature, 

Adds fragrance and fruit to the tree, 
Through her eyes, through her every feature, 

Shines the soul of the young Haidee. 

But the loveliest garden grows hateful 

When Love has abandon'd the bowers ; 
Bring me hemlock — since mine is ungratefuj 

That herb is more fragrant than flowers. 
The poison when pour'd from the chalice 

Will deeply embitter the bowl ; 
But when drunk to escape from thy malice, 

The draught shall be sweet to my soul 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



245 



Too eru«l ! in vain I implore thee 
My he-art from these horrors to save : 

Will nought to my bosom restore thee ? 
Then open the gates of the grave. 

As the chief who to combat advances 

Secure of his conquest before, 
Thus thou, with those eyes for thy lances, 

Hast pierced through my heart to its core. 
Ah, tell me, my soul ! must I perish 

By pangs which a smile would dispel? 
Woidd the hope, which thou once bad'»« me 
cherish, 

For torture repay me too well ? 
Now sad is the garden of roses, 

Beloved but false Haidee ! 
There Flora all wither'd reposes, 

And mourns o'er thine absence with me. 



is duller than the lustre which I seek. 
Nor vainly seek in try sweet eye — noi 
speak 
Detractingiy to praise — as some bards do! 
I will not stain the my for thy neck, 
Nor strive, by niching, purer chaiuis t« 
deck, 
Nor nature's slighted splendour o'er then 

strew : — 
They ure too fair to need such hollow praise, 

And gain but little in all nature's wreck. 
Theripeningrose.the sheen thy cheek display* 
The spotless lily, charm in various ways. 



ODE TO THE PAST. 



ON PARTING. 

Thk kiss, dear maid ! thy lip has left 

Shall never part from mine, 
Till happier hours restore the gift 

Untainted back to thine. 

Thy pailing glance, which fondly beams, 

\n equal love may see : 
The tear that, from thine eyelid streams 

Can weep no change in me. 

I ask no pledge to make me blest 

In gazing when alone ; 
Nor one memorial for a breast, 

Whose thoughts are all thine own. 

Nor need I write — to tell the tale 

My pen were doubly weak : 
Oh ' what can idle words avail, 

Unless the heart could speak ? 

By day or night, in weal or woe, 

That heart, no longer free, 
Must bear the love it cannot show, 

And silent, ache for thee. 

March, 1811. 



SONNET. 

I will not rob the rose of its soft hue, 
To give the pilfer'd beauty to thy cheek, 
Th' invidious panegyric were but weak ! 

I will not swear the ghst'ning morning dew 



Relentless Past! canst thou not hear * 
prayer? 

Dost thou der de our immortality, 
And calmly tell .is we must ever bear 

The hopeless agony of knowing thee ? 

It is a tyrant's part to use his power, 
Not only to oppress but mock at man ; 

Veil thyself from me but a single hour, 

And let me dream of rapture while I can!— 

Leave me, pursue me not thou matchless 
fiend ! 
The tempests o'erwhelming woe 
Have yet their time to come and go, 
And harricanes of passion blow, 
And every hour brings forth a foe ; 

In mere forbearance let me call thee friend !— 

Fiction and fancy have embodied thee! 
They made thee many as thv pains, 
And all that from thy spite remains 
Of ancient Lore, in sorrow'd strains, 
Counts furies by their several reigns; 

And numbers years by their atrocity ! 

Man hunts, pursues, destroys, his fellow man" 
Perchance would blast his memory, 
And crush his grave with calumny ; 
But death must set the victim free. 
Life and injustice cease to be, 

Whereas thy persecution knows no span ! 



246 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



TO TIME. 

Eternal Time ! that wasteth without waste 
Thou art, and art not — di :st, and livest 
still ; 
Most slow of all, and yet or greatest haste, 

Both ill and good, and neither good nor ill. 
How can I justly praise thee, or dispraise? 
«*urk are thy nights, hut bright and clear thy 
days. 



TO THYRZA. 

Without a stone to mark the spot, 

And say, what Truth might well have .-aid, 

By all, save one, perchance forgot, 
Ah! wherefore ait thou lowly laid? 

By many a shore and many a sea 

Divided, yet beloved in vain; 
The past, the future fled to thee, 

To bid us meet — no — ne'er again! 

Could this have been — a word, a look, 
That softly said, " We part in peace," 

Had taught my bosom how to brook, 
With fainter sighs, thy soul's release. 

And didst thou not, since Death for thee 
Prepared a light and pangless dart, 

Once long for him thou ne'er shalt see, 
Who held, and holds thee in his heart? 

Oh. who like him had watch'd thee here? 

Or sndly mark'd thy glazing eye, 
r n that dread hour ere death appear, 

When sil >,at sorrow fears to sigh, 

I ill all was past ! But when no mor s 
T was thine to reck of human woe, 

Affection's heart-drops, gushing o'er, 
Had flow'd as fast — as now they fl( w. 

Shall they not flow, when many a da\ 
In these, to me, deserted towers, 

Ere call'd but for a time away, 
Affection's mingling tears were ours ? 

Ours too the glance none saw beside; 

The smile none else might understand; 
The whisper'd thought of hearts alKed, 

The pressuie of the thrilling hand; 



The kiss, so guiltless and refined, 

That Love each warmer wish forbore; 

Those eyes proclaim'd so pure a mind, 
Even passion blush'd to plead for more. 

The tone, that taught me to rejoice, 
When prone, unlike thee, to repine; 

The song, celestial from thy voice, 
But sweet to me from none but thine; 

The pledge we wore — I wear it still, 

But where is thine? — Ah! where ait thou? 

Oft have I borne the weight of ill, 
But never bent beneath till now! 

Well hast thou left in life's best bloom 
The cup of woe for me t > drain. 

If rest alone be in the tomb 

I would not wish thee here again; 

But if in worlds more blest than this 
Thy virtues seek a fitter sphere, 

Impart some portion of thy bliss, 

To wean me from mine anguish here 

Teach me- -too early taught by thee! 

To bear, forgiving and forgiven : 
On earth thy love was such to me ; 

It fft ! n would form my hope in heaven . 

October 11, 1811 



AWAY, AWAY, YE NOTES OF WOE. 

Away, away, ye notes of woe ! 

Be silent, thou once soothing strain, 
Or I must flee from hence — for, oh! 

I dare not trust those sounds again. 
To me they speak of brighter days — 

But lull the chords, for now, alas! 
I must not think, I may not gaze, 

On what I am — on what I was. 

The voice that made those sounds more swee 

Is hush'd, and all their charms are fled; 
And now their softest notes repeat 

A dirge, an anthem o'er the dead* 
Yes, Thyrza! yes, they breathe of thee, 

Beloved dust! since dust thou art; 
And all that once was harmony 

Is worse than discord to my heart' 

'T is silent all ! — but on my ear 
The well remember'd echoes thrill, 

I hear a voice I would not hear, 

A voice that now might well be still . 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



24' 



Yet oft my doubting soul 'twill shake: 
Even slumber owns its gentle tone, 

Till consciousness will vainly wake 
To listen, though the dream be flown. 

Sw eet Thyrza ! waking as in sleep, 

Thou art but now a lovely dream ; 
A star that trembled o'er the deep, 

Then turn'd from earth its tender beam. 
But he who through life's dreary way 

Must pass, when heaven is veil'd in wrath, 
Will long lament the vanish'd ray 

That scatter 'd gladness o'er his path. 

December 6, 1811. 



ONE STRUGGLE MORE, AND I AM 
FREE. 

One struggle more, and I am free 

From pangs that rend my heart in twain; 
One last long sigh to love and thee, 

Then back to busy life again. 
[t suits me well to mingle now 

"With things that never pleased before: 
Though every joy is lied below, 

What future grief can touch me more? 

Then bring me wine, the banquet bring; 

Man was not form'd to live alone: 
I '11 be that light, unmeaning thing, 

That smiles with all, and weeps with none. 
It was not thus in days more dear, 

It never would have been, but thou 
Hast fled, and left me lonely here; 

Thou 'rt nothing — all are nothing now. 

In vain my lyre would lightly breathe! 

The smile that sorrow fain would wear 
But mocks the woe that lurks beneath, 

Like roses o'er a sepulchre. 
Though gay companions o'er the bowl 

Dispel awhile the sense of ill ; 
Though pleasure fires the maddening soul, 

The heart — the heart is lonely still! 

On many a lone and lovely night 

It soothed to gaze upon the sky; 
For then I deem'd the heavenly light 

Shone sweetly on thy pensive eye: 
And oft I thought at Cynthia's noon, 

When sailing o'er the iEgean wave, 
' Now Thyrza gazes on that moon — '" 

Alas, '1 gleain'd upon her grave! 



When stretch'd on fever's & tepless bed, 

And sickness shrunk my throbbing veins, 
" Tis comfort still," I faintly said, 

" That Thyrza cannot know my pains:" 
Like freedom to the time-worn slave. 

A boon 'tis idle then to give, 
Relenting Nature vainly gave 

My life, when Thyrza ceased to live' 

My Thyrza's pledge in better days, 

When love and life alike were new! 
How different now thou meet'st my gazt ' 

How tinged by time with sorrow's hut ' 
The heart that gave itself with thee 

Is silent — ah, were mine as still 
Though cold as e'en the dead can be 

It feels, it sickens with the chill. 

Thou bitter pledge ! thou mournful token ! 

Though painful, welcome to my breast! 
Still, still, preserve that love unbroken, 

Or break the heart to which thou 'it press'd 
Time tempers love, but not removes, 

More hallow' d when its hope is fled : 
Oh! what are thousand living loves 

To that which cannot quit the dead? 



EUTHANASIA. 

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring 
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, 

Oblivion! may thy languid wing 
Wave gently o'er my dying bed! 

No band of friends or heirs be there. 
To weep or wish the coming blow . 

No maiden, with dishevell'd hair, 
To feel, or feign, decorous woe. 

But silent let me sink to earth, 
With no officious mourners near: 

I would not mar one hour of mirth, 
Nor startle friendship with a tear. 

Vet Love, if Love in such an hour 
Could nobly check its useless sighs, 

Might then exert its latest power 
In her who lives and him who dies. 

T were sweet, my Psyche ! to the last 
Thy features still serene to see- 

Forgetful of its struggles past, 

E'en Pain itself should smile on the 



248 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



But vain the wish — tor Beauty still 

Will shrink, as shrinks the ebhing breath 

And woman's tears, produced at will, 
Deceive in life, unman in death. 

Then lonely he my latest hour, 
Without regret/without a groan ; 

Fur thousands Death hath ceased to lower, 
And pain been transient or unknown. 

" Ay, but to die, and go," alas! 

Where all have gone, and all must go! 
To be the nothing that I was 

Ere born to life and living woe ' 

Count o'er the joys thine horns have seen, 
Count o'er thy days from anguish free, 

And know, whatever thou hast been. 
'T is something better not to be. 



The better days of life were ours ; 

The worst can be but mine : 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lower* 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep ; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away; 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey ; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd. 

The leaves must drop away : 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd to-day ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fun 



AND THOU ART DEAD, AS YOUNG 
AS FAIR. . 

" Heu, quanto minus est cum reliquis versaii 
quam tui meminisse I" 

Ayo thou art dead, as young and fair, 

As aught of mortal birth; 
And form so soft, and charms so rare, 

Too soon return'd to Earth ! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the orowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low, 

Nor gaze upon the spot ; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow. 

So I behold them not: 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love. 

Like common earth can rot ; 
To me there needs no stone to tell, 
Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Vet did I love thee to the last 

As fervently as thou, 
Who didst not change through all the past 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal, 
Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow : 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 



I know not if I coidd have borne 

To see thy beauties fade ; 
The night that follow'd such amoiu 

Had worn a deeper shade : 
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd, 
And thou wert lovely to the last ; 

Extingui s h'd, not rtecay'd ; 
As sta"s that shoot along the sky 
Shine frightest at they fall from high. 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears mi^ht well be shed, 
To think I was not near to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed ; 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head ; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Vet how tmtcn less it were to gain. 

Though thou hast left me fixe, 
The loveliest things that still remain, 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught, except its dving years. 

February, 18 J* 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



240 



LINES WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 

OF THE " PLEASURES OF 

MEMORY." 

Absent or present, still to thee, 

My friend, what magic spells belong ! 

«U ail can tell, who share, like me, 
In turn thy converse, and thy song. 

But when the dreaded hour shall come 
By Friendship ever deem'd too nigh, 

And " Memory" o'er her Druid's tomb 24 
Shall weep that aught of thee can die. 

How fondly will she then repay 
Thy homage ofler'd at her shrine, 

And blend, while ages roll away, 
Her name immortally with thine f 

April 19, 1812. 



ADDRESS, 

3POKEN AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE 
THEATRE, SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1812. 25 

In one dread night our city saw, and sigh'd, 
Bow'd to the dust, the Drama's tower of pride; 
In one short hour beheld the blazing fane, 
Apollo sink, and Shakspeare cease to reign. 

Ye who beheld, (oh ! sight admired and 

mourn'd, 
Whose radiance mock'd the ruin it adorn 'd !) 
Through clouds of fire the massive fragments 

riven, 
Like Israel's pillar, chase the night from heaven 
Saw the long column of revolving flames 
Shake its red shadow o'er the startled Thames, 26 
While thousands, throng'd around the burning 

dome, [home, 

■Shrank back appall'd, and trembled for their 
As glared the volumed blaze, and ghastly shone 
The skies, with lightnings awful as their own, 
Till blackening ashes and the lonely wall 
'Jsurp'd the Muse's realm, and mark d her fall ; 
Say — shall this new, nor less aspiring pile, 
FL*ar'd where once rose the mightiest in our isle, 
Know the same favour which the former knew, 
A shrine for Shakspeare — worthy him and you? 

Yes — it shall be — the magic of that name 
Defies the scythe of time, the torch of flame , 
On the same spot still consecrates the scene, 
Ar..i bids the Drama be where she hath been. • 
This fabric's birth attests the potent spell — 
ladulge our honest pride, and say, How well ' 



As soars this fane to emulate the last 
Oh! might we draw our omens from ihi past 
Some hour propitious to our prayers may boast 
Names such as hallow still the dome we lost. 
On Drury first your Siddons' thrilling art 
O'erwhelm'd the gentlest, storm'd the sternest 

heart 
On Drury, Garrick's latest laurels grew ; 
Here your last tears retiring Rose i us drew : 
Sigh'd his last thanks, and wept his last adieu 
But still for living wit the wreaths may bloom, 
That only waste their odours o'er the tomb. 
Such Drury claim'd and claims — nor yourefust 
One tribute to revive his slumbering muse ; 
With garlands deck your own Menander's head ' 
Nor hoard your honours idly for the dead ! 

Dear are the days which made our annal* 

bright, 
Ere Garriek fled, or Brinsley ceased to writ«. 
Heirs to their laboirs like all high-born hens. 
Vain of our ancestry as they of theirs ; 
"While thus Remembrance bonowa Banquo's 

glass 
To claim the sceptred shadows as they pass, 
And we the mirror hold, where imaged shine 
Immortal names, emblazon'd on our line, 
Pause — ere their feebler offspringyou condemn, 
Reflect how hard the task to rival them ! 

Friends of the stage ! to whom both Player* 
and Plays 
Must sue alike for pardon or for praise, 
Whose judging vo.'ce and eye alone direct 
The boundless power to cherish or reject; 
If e'er frivolity has led to fame, 
And made us blush that you forbore to blame; 
If e'er the sinking stage could condescend 
To soothe the sickly taste it dare not mend, 
All past reproach may present scenes refute, 
And censure, wisely loud, be justly mute ! 
Oh ! since your flat stamps the Drama s iaw«. 
Forbear to mock us with misplaced applause 
So pride shall doubly nerve the actor's powers 
And reason's voice be echo'd back by ours ! 

This greeting o er, the ancient rule obey d, 
The Drama's homage by her herald paid, 
Receive our welcome too, whose every tone 
Springs from our hearts, and fain would wW 

your own. 
The curtain rises — may our stage unfold 
Scenes not unworthy Drury 's days of old ! 
Britons our judges, Nature for our guide, 
Still may we please — long, long may you pre 
side ! 



250 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



PARENTHETICAL ADDRESS 

BY DR. PLAGIARY, 

Half stolen, with acknowledgments, to be spoken 
in an inarticulate voice by Master P. at the 
opening of the next new theatre. Stolen parts 
marked with the inverted commas of quotation 
— thus" ". 

' When energising objects men pursue," 
Then Lord knows what is writ by Lord knows 

who 
" \v modest monologue you here survey," 
Hiss'd from the theatre the "other day," 
Asif'Sir Fretful wrote "the slumberous" verse, 
And gave his son " the rubbish" to rehearse. 
" Yet at the thing you'd never be amazed," 
Knew you the rumpus which the author raised , 
" Nor even here your smiles would be represt, " 
Knew you these lines — the badness of the best. 
* Flame! fire ! and flame ! !" (words borrow'd 

from Lucretius,) 
" Dread metaphors which open wounds " like 

issues ! 
" And sleeping pangs awake — and — but away" 
\Confound me if I know what next to say). 
" Lo Hope reviving re-expands her wings," 
And Master G — recites what Doctor Busbj 

sings ! — 
" If mighty things with small we may compare," 
^Translated from the grammar for the fair !) 
Dramatic "spirit drives a conquering car," 
And burn'd poor Moscow like a tub of " tar." 
" This spirit Wellington has shown in Spain," 
To furnish melodrames for Drury Lane. 
" Another Marlborough points to Blenheim's 

story," 
Aod George and I will dramatise it for ye. 

" In arts and sciences cur isle hath shone" 
(This deep discovery is mine alone). 
" Oh British poesy, whose powers inspire 
My verse — or I'm a fool — and Fame's a liar, 
" Thee we invoke, your sister arts implore' 
With "smiles," and "lyres," and "pencils," 

and much more. 
These, if we win the Graces, too, we gain 
Disgraces, too, " inseparable train ! " 
" Three who have stolen their witching airs 
from Cupid" [stupid): 

(You all know w hat I mean, unless you 're 
'Harmonious throng" that I have kept in petto, 
Now to produce in a " divine sestctto" ! ! 
" While Poesy," while these delightful doxies, 
u Sustains her part" in all the " upper" boxes ! 



" Thus lifted gloriously, you '11 soar along,' 
Borne in the vast balloon of Busby's song ; 
" Shine in your farce, masque, scenery, ai.d 

play" 
(For this last line George had a holiday). 
"Old Drury never, never soar'd so high," 
So says the manager, and so say I. 
" But hold, you say, this self-complacent boast ;"* 
Is this the poem which the public lost? 
" True — true — that lowers at once our mouni. 

ing pride ; " 
But lo ! — the papers print what you deride. 
" T is ours to look on you — you hold the prize," 
'T is twenty guineas, as they advertize ! 
" A double blessing your rewards impart " — 
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart. 
" Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause, 
Why son and I both beg for your applause. 
" When in your fostering beams you bid us 

live," [you give ; 

My next subscription list shall say how much 

October, 1812 



SONNET. 

Prosperity counts courtiers without end. 
So long as all the Pleasures round us wait, 
And amongst men we aredeem'd fortunate ; 
Each of these courtiers would be titled "friend," 
Would hover round us, and would apprehend 
Our most minute desires : and would create 
New visionary joys by antidate, — 
Ever at hand to smile and to attend. — 
Whej we are happy, and no grief or pain, 
No vain or luckless passion breathes its 
blight, 
To parch our withering spirits with its bane, 
No futile Hope doth mock us in our wane, 

Thou sleep art ever lavish of delight, — 
Thou art a Courtier and a Parasite! 



REMEMBER THEE ! REMEMBER 
THEE ! 

Remember thee ! remember thee ! 

Till Lethe quench life's burning stream 
Remorse and shame shall cling lo thee, 

And haunt thee like a feverish dream ! 

Remember thee ! Ay, doubt it nut. 

Thy husband too'shall think of thee : 
By neither shalt thou be forgot, 

"Thou false to him, thou fiend tome' 48 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



251 



TO 1IME. 

Time ! on whose arbitrary wing 

The varying hours must flag or fly, 
Whose tardy winter, fleeting spring, 

But drag or drive us on to die- 
Hail thou ! who on my birth bestow'd 

Those boons to all that know thee known; 
Vet better I sustain thy load, 

For now I bear the weight alone. 

I would not one fond heart should share 
The bitter moments thou hast given ; 

And pardon thee, since thou eouldst spare 
All that I loved, to peace or heaven. 

To them be joy or rest, on me 

Thy future ills shall press in vain . 

I nothing owe but years to thee. 
A debt already paid in pain. 

Yet even that pain was some relief; 

(t felt, but still forgot thy power: 
Tl e active agony of grief 

jtletards, but never counts the hour. 

lb joy I 've sigh'd to think thy flight 
Would soon subside from swift to slow ; 

Thr cloud could overcast the light, 
But could not add a night to woe ; 

For then, however drear and dark, 
My soul was suited to thy sky ; 

One star alone shot forth a spark 
To prove thee — not Eternity 

That beam haM sunk, and now thou art 
A blank ; a thing to count and curse, 

Through each dull tedious trifling part. 
Which all regret, yet ell rehearse 

One scene even thou canst not deform ; 

The limit of thy sloth or speea 
When future wanderers bear the storm 

Which we shall sleep too sound to heed : 

And I can smile 10 think how weak 
Thine efforts shortly shall be shown. 

When a.l the. vengeance thou canst wreak 
Must fall upon — a nameless stone. 



TRANSLATION OF A ROMAIC LOVE 
SONG. 

Ah ! Love was never yet without 
The pang, the agony, the doubt, 
Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh, 
While day and night roll darkling by. 

Without one friend to hear my woe, 
I faint, I die beneath the blow. 
That Love had arrows, well I knew ; 
Alas ! I find them poison'd too 

Birds, yet in freedom, shun the net 
W r hich Love around your haunts hath set; 
Or, circled by his fatal fire, 
Your hearts shall burn, your hopes expire. 

A bird of free and careless wing 
Was I, through many a smiling spring; 
But caught within the subtle snare 
I burn, and feebly flutter there 

Who ne'er have loved, and loved in vain 
Can neither feel nor pity pain, 
The cold repulse, the look askance, 
The lightning of Love's angry glance. 

In flattering dreams I deem'd thee miue . 
Now hope, and he who hoped, decline; 
Like melting wax, or withering flower, 
I feel my passion, and thy power 

My light of life ! ah, tell me why 
That pouting lip, and alter 'd eye ? 
My bird of love ! my beauteous mate ! 
And art thou changed, and canst thou hatt * 

Mine eyes like wintry streams o'erflow: 
What wretch with me would barter woe? 
My bird ! relent : one note could give 
A charm, to bid thy lover live. 

My curdling blood, my madd'ning brain, 
In silent anguish I sustain ; 
And still thy heart, without partaking 
One pang, exults — while mine is btsaking 

Pour me the poison ; fear not thou ! 
Thou canst not murder more than now : 
I 've lived to curse my natal day, 
And Love, that thus can lingering slay. 

My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 
Alas ! too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of woe. 



252 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



THOU ART NOT KALSE, BUI 
ART FICKLE. 



THOL 



Thop art not false, but thou art fickle, 
To those thyself so fondly sought ; 

The tears that thou hast forced to trickle 
Are doubly bitter from that thought : 

'T is this which breaks the heart thou grievest, 

Too wel) thou lov'st — too soon thou leavest. 

The wholly false the heart despises, 
And spurns deceiver and deceit ; 

But she who not a thought disgir.ses, 
Whose love is as sincere as sweet, — 

When she can change who loved so truly, 

It feels what mine has felt so newly. 

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow 
Is doom'd tc all who love or live ; 

And if, when conscious on the morrow 
We scarce our fancy can forgive, 

That cheated us in slumber only, 

To leave the waking soul more lonely. 

What must they feel whom no false vision, 
But truest, tenderest passion warin'd ? 

Sincere, but swift in sad transition ; 
As if a dream alone had charm'd? 

Ah ! sure such grief is fancy's scheming, 

And all thy change can be but dreaming! 



ON BEING ASKED WHAT WAS THE 
" ORIGIN OF LOVE." 

Tke "Origin of Love!" — Ah, why 
That cruel question ask of me, 

When thou may'st read in many an eye 
He starts to life on seeing thee? 

And shouldst thou seek his end to know : 
My heart forebodes, my lears foresee, 

He '11 linger long in silent woe ; 
But live — until I cease to be. 



REMEMBER HIM, WHOM PASSION'S 
POWER. 

Remember him, whom passion's power 

Severely, deeply, vainly proved: 
Remember thou that dangerous hour 

When neither fell, though both \vere loved. 



Tnat yielding breast, that meltu g eye, 
Too much invited to be bless'd : 

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, 
The wilder wish reproved, repress'd 

Oh ! let me feel that ah I lost 

But saved thee all that conscience fears; 
And blush for every pang it cost 

To spare the vain remorse of years. 

Yet think of this when many a tongue. 
Whose busy accents whisper blame, 

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, 
And brand a nearly blighted name. 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou 

Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: 

I bless thy purer soul even now, 
E ven now, in midnight solitude. 

Oh, God ! that we had met in time, 

Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; 

When thou hadst loved without a crime, 
And I been less unworthy thee ' 

Far may thy days, as heretofore, 

From this our gaudy world be past . 

And that too bitter moment o'er, 
Oh ! may such trial be thy last ! 

This heart, alas ! perverted long, 
Itself destroy'd might there destroy ; 

To meet thee in the glittering throng, 
Would wake Presumption's hope of joy. 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe, 
Like mine, is wild and worthless all, 

That world resign — such scenes forego, 
Where those who feel must surely fall. 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness, 
Thy soul from long seclusion pure ; 

From what even here hath pass'd, may gues« 
What there thy bosom must endure. 

Oh ! pardon that imploring tear, 
Since not by Virtue shed in vain, 

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; 
For me they shall not weep again. 

Though long and mournful must it be, 
The thought that we no more may meet -. 

Yet I deserve the stem decree. 

And almost deem the sentence sweet 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



253 



IF SOMETIMES IN THE HAUNTS 

OF MEN. 

If sometimes in the haunts of men 

Thine image from my breast may fade, 
The lonely hour presents again 

The semblance of thy gentle shade : 
And now that sad and silent hour 

Thus much of thee can still restore, 
And sorrow unobserved may pour 

The plaint she dare not speak before. 

Oh, pardon that in crowds awhile 

I waste one thought I owe to thee, 
And, seif-condemn'd, appear to smile, 

Unfaithful to thy memory ! 
Nor deem that memory less dear, 

That then I seem not to repine; 
would not fools should overhear 

One sigh that should be wholly thine, 

f not the goblet pass unquaffd, 
It is not drain'd to banish care ; 

The cup must hold a deadlier draught, 
That brings a Lethe for despair. 

\nd could Oblivion set my soul 
From all her troubled visions free, 
'd dash to earth the sweetest bowl 
That drown'd a single thought of thee 

'or wert thou vanish'd from my mind, 

Where could my vacant bosom turn ? 
knd who would then remain behind 

To honour thine abandon'd Um ? 
\ T o, no — it is my sorrow's pride 

That last dear duty to fulfil ; 
^hough all the world forget beside, 

'Tis meet that I remember still. 

For well I know, that, such had been 

Thy gentle care for him, who now 
Unmourn'd shall quit this mortal scene, 

Where none regarded him, but thou: 
And, oh! I feel in that was given 

A blessing never meant for me ; 
l'hou wert too like a dream of Heaven, 

For earthly Love to merit thee. 

March 14, 1812. 



ON A CORNELIAN HEART WHICH 
WAS BROKEN. 

Ill-fated Heart! and can it be, 
That thou shouldst thus be rent in twain ? 

Have years of care for thine and thee 
Ajke been all employ'd in vain ? 



Yet precious seems each shatter'd part, 
And every fragment dearer grown, 

Since he who wears thee feels thou art 
A fitter emblem of his own. 

March 16, HIS 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

Mgle, beauty and poet, has two little crimes; 
She makes her own face, and does not make 
her rhvmes. 



LINES TO A LADY WEEPING 23 

Weep, daughter of a royal line, 
A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay ; 

Ah! happy if each tear of thine 
Could wash a father's fault away ! 

Weep — for thy tears are Virtue's tears — 
Auspicious to these suffering isles ; 

And be each drop in future years 
Kepaid thee by thy people's smiles ! 

March, 1812. 



THE CHAIN I GAVE. 
From the Turkish. 

The chain I gave was fair to view, 
The lute I added sweet in sound , 

The heart that offer'd both was true, 
And ill deserved the fate it found. 

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell, 
Thy truth in absence to divine ; 

And they have done their duty well, — 
Alas ! they could not teach thee thine. 

That chain was firm in every link, 
But not to bear a stranger's touch ; 

That lute was sweet — till thou could'st think 
In other hands its notes were such. 

Let him, who from thy neck unbound 
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, 

Who saw that lute refuse to sound, 
Restring the chords, renew the clasp. 

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too ; 

The chain is broke, the music mute. 
'T is past — to them and thee adieu — 

False heart, frail chain, and silent hue 



254 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



SONNET, TO GENEVRA. 

Th i N e eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, 
And the '.van lustre of thy features — caught 
From contemplation — where serenely 
wrought [spair — ■ 

Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its de- 
Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine 
air, [fraught 

That — but I know thy blessed bosom 
With mines of unalloy'd and stainless 
thought — [care. 

I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly 
With such an aspect, by his colours -blent, 

' When from his beauty-breathing pencil born. 
(Except that thou hast nothing to repent) 

The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — 

Such seem'st thou --but how much more 

excellent! [scorn. 

With nought Remorse can claim — nor Virtue 

December 17, 1813. 



SONNET, TO THE SAME. 

Tuv cheek is pale with thought, but not from 
woe, 

And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush 

Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, 
My heart would wish away that ruder glow • 
And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oh ! 

While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, 

And into mine my mothers weakness rush, 
Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. 
For, through thy long dark lashes low depend- 
ing, 

The soul of melancholy Gentleness 
Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, 

Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; 
At once such majesty with sweetness blending, 

I worship more, but cannot love thee less. 
December 17, 1813. 



FROM THE PORTUGUESE. 

" TU MI CHAMAS." 

la moments to delight devoted, 

" My life !" with tenderest tone, you cry! 
Dear words ! on which my heart had doted, 

If youth could neither fade nor die. 



To death even hours like these must \ oil, 
Ah! then repeat those accents never ; 

Or change " my life!" into " my soul!' 
Which, like my love, exists for ever. 

ANOTHER VERSION. 

You call me still your life. — Oh! change the 
word — 

Life is as transient as the inconstant sigh 
Say rather I' m your soul; more just that name. 

For, like the soul, my love can never die 



SONNET. 

The stream, whose plaintive course was un 
opposed, 
In melancholy stillness moan'd along, 
Its murmuring almost became a song. 
No melody with matchless art composed, 
Nor notes by science mournfully disposed, 
Could make monotony bewitch so long, 
Or move to pathos half so deep or strong. 
A.s this perpetually interposed, 
Obstructed or disturbed this murmuring. 
Changes for discord every softer tone, 
The roar and din become an irksome thing 
Thenceforth we feel but pain in listening. 
Thus sorrow hath a music of its own, 
Which charms in its tranquillity alone. 



THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. 

The spirit of soft Solitude and Prayer, 

Which broods o'er rocks and mounlaio 
crags and dells ; 
The bounding torrent or the Forest lair, 

Or where to mortal eye but wildness dwells; 
Natheless hath ever sweetly woo'd her own, 

Her kindred spirits to withdraw with her, 
To where man s din and toil have ne'er been 
known. 

•• Come," saith this wild fantastic minister, 
To Genius wrong'd or ill requited Love. 

The hapless outcast, homeless, and alone, 
To glutted pleasure nought can further move 

With o'er tried taste, and temper long sine* 
gone ; 
'• Come, come with me to mine own paradise 

Secluded home of Secret for your sighs." 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



255 



roL * * 

Whkn years * ve roll'd by and our pleasure 
or pa'A 
All the p«-//'on of youth is no more, 
Thou wilt 'Jjnk ol* this lone little chamber 
a? J a , 
W'-^u Uy hand was in mine first of yore. 

Where in trembling I taught thee to hear 

and repeat, 

The soft taie of the heart-stirring song ; 

Where in frenzy of rapture my temples would 

be-at, 

As those accents were murmur'd along. 

Where thy half-parted lips to my transport 
confess'd, 
The endearing requital of love, 
Where thine arms in soft circling my bosom 
oppress'd, 
The quick breath that thy whispers would 
move. 

Where in transport thy lips were fast bound 
upon mine, 
Till the life-breath was suck'd from its cell, 
And my heart was close press'd to that bosom 
t.l thine, 
In (* slight which no language could tell. 



WE LIVE TO LEARN, YET SLOWLY 
LEARN TO LIVE. 

An Epistle dpon the Exchange op 
mutual Presents. 

We live to learn, yet slowly learn to live ; 

So that our living yields us no return : 
We give, yet would not often vainly give ; 

Free giving's what we lose, or have to 
learn ! 

Giving and loving are antitheses, 
Strangely contrasted, as all being is ; 

For yet we'd stoop to crave upon our knees 
The very gift which makes us such as this. 

Are we not then like creatures with wry faces, 
Reflected from an hundred scraps of glass, 

With undulated surface, and whose traces 
Show like the monkey here — there like the 
ass? 



Thus much for me, not you ;• -the plumeless 

shaft, 
Which harmless satire hurls, falls dead 

'gainst you ; 
But mark it well • 'tis not wrought withoul 

craft, 
I And may yet prove 'gainst some th6 aim 

was true. 

I moralize; yet why not moralize, 
E'en o'er the little incidents of life : 

It is on these we ponder to be wise, 
The greater bury our dissecting knife. 

Look at the ant ! she rears a mighty hill 
With little scraps of rubbish, one by one. 

And Socrates had barely learnt his fill, 
Had he not thus pursued as thus begun. 

And 'tis, believe me, that which marks thf 
fool, 

If not the maniac, to attempt to grasp 
The gross of life within a puny rule; 

The jot is quite as much as we can clasp 

fn taking, then, this present, you receive 
A little scrap of rank philosophy, 

And in accepting your's, I would believe, 
And do believe there's better store for me 

Thus we fulfil the rule I have set out : 

I, having learnt, have given to you for gain, 

You, without studying what you gave about, 
Have yielded substance to a flimsy strain. 



TO F . 

Too fairforpraise — too modest to believe it— 
Too truly meritorious to receive it, 
'Tis a hard task to know well what to do, 
When one is ask'd to write a song to you. 
Yet eulogy, when just, will reach its aim, 
As nothing wounds like well adapted blame, 
And if the critic be himself but good, 
His praise or blame is felt and understood. 
I am not such a one, and hence my praise 
Must be as worthless as such recreant laysf 
So that I can have nothing left to do, 
But to present my compliments. Adieu! 



256 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



A TEAR. 

What matters it to those, my fellow men, 
That here the heart of one sad man be 
oroken ; 
Too far above my deep misfortune's ken, 
My distant sorrow wafts them scarce a 
token. 

Ah! never, doubtless, never shall a tear 
Darken; for them the brightness of the d;iy. 

Their future bodes them nothing dark or drear, 
No gall shall bid them cast their cup away. 

Ah ! never, doubtless, never shall yon throng 
Of listless idlers lounging in my way, 

In deep indomitable anguish long, 

To hear one breathe " I weep with thee 
to-day." 

Well then, let me no more so vainly seek 
Compassion from the selfish heart of man, 

iet me but feed my soul and bathe my cheek 
In grief— and hide my sorrow if I can ! 



A LINE OR TWO IN FRENCH, 

Suggested by Madame G at Coligny. 

FRIENDSHIP. 

J'fcST 1'amitie qui nous apprend a vivre 
C'est 1'amitie qui nous rend sages et bons 

Tendre commerce a toi done je me livre 
Accorde moi de recueillir tes dons. 

Que sont tous beaux plaisirs de la vie, 

Sans toi — sans toi, qui sais »ous consoler. 

Helas! la joie est trop souvent suivie, 

De quelque chagrin qui doit nous dechirer. 

Ah ! c'est alors au milieu de nos larmes 
Quand le courage nous quitte pour la 
douleur. * 

Ah ! c'est alors qu'on doit sentir tes charmes, 
Ta voix cherie vient soulager nos pleurs. 

Comment sans toi peut on passer la t,erre , 
Comment sans toi chercher l'eternite, 

Quand le chagrin de tous cotes nous serre, 
Pour nous fletrir de sa fatalite. 



TO MISS EMMA L 

ON FIRST HEARING HER SING. 

Where rural melodies in concert swell, 
At early dawn, or summer eventide, 

Deep in the calm of some sequester'd dell, 
I've listen'd, as the feather 'd loveis sighed 

Upon the brink of Leman's tranquil tide, 
Whilst the wild notes of mountain-musi< 
flow'd 

Impassion'd forth, I've oft been won to b!de 
Or heard some boatmen carol as they row d. 

On fair Italia's olive mantled shore, 

Music's voluptuous roll hath charm 'd my 
ear; 
I've heard the stanzas, chased by stanaas, 
pour, 
Attuned from many songsters, far and near. 

And with the fondest love of harmony, 

I've beard what nature and what art com- 
bine, 
And since I have heard you, nor know I why, 
Your voice hath taught anew this ear of 
mine 



SWEET STARS OF CLEAR AND 
CLOUDLESS NIGHT. 

Sweet stars of clear and cloudless night. 

Allow me to behold and weep. 
Your eyes are ever soft and bright:— 

Those eyes that never close in sleep.— 
In common this we have, to be 

Still wakeful when all else do rest : 
Besides, you seem to pity me. 

Your i-ays thus steal into my breast. 
Full liquidly their haloes beam 

And scatter light, like sighs, through tears , 
I mark the sympathetic gleam, 

Or deem it such as it appears. 



CANZONE. 

How happy do I wish thee, and how sweet, 

The rapture I would see each hour repeat. 

Torn by the torture of excessive woe, 

Upon the rack of ceaseless pain ; 
My failing faculties still glow, 

To breathe to heaven this imploring strain. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



257 



T have no longer an identity : — 
All of myself is mingled up in thee, 

And ts a drop of rain 
That falls upon the stream, flows on unsee 
And lost in greater waters, — so my soul 
Hath lost its life, once separate, in thine. 

It struggled, but in vain 
To Liberate its beins — 1<> console 
Us desolation, cease to pine 
And be as joyous as it might have been: 
Bat, ail its strength pour'd out upon a tear, 
To swell the endless stream of anguish flowing 

near 
And now the power it has sighs on for thee, 
Pours forth on high for thy prosperity 
The eloquence ol suffering and of love, 
Unheard on eartL, but ne'er repulsed above. 



CONDOLATORY ADDRESS 

TO SARAH COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON THE 

¥RINCE BEUKNT's RETURNING HER PICTURE 

TO MRS. MEE. 

When the vain triumph of the imperial lord, 
Whom servile Rome obey'd and yet abhorr'd, 
Gave to the vulgar gaze each glorious bust, 
That left a likeness of the brave, or just ; 
What most admired each scrutinising eye 
Of all that deck'd that passing pageantry ? 
What spread from face to face that wondering 

air ? 
The thought of Brutus — for his was not there ! 
That absence proved his worth, — that absence 

fixd 
His memory on the longing mind, unmix'd; 
And more decreed his glory to endure, 
Than all a gold Colossus could secure. 
If thus, fair Jersey, our desiring gaze 
Search for thy form, in vain and mute amaze, 
Amidst those pictured charms,whose loveliness, 
Bright though they be, thine own had render 'd 

less : 
If he, that vain old man, whom truth admits 
Heir of his father's crown, and of his wits, 
If his corrupted eye, and wither'd heart, 
Could with thy gentle image bear depart ; 
That tasteless shame be his, and ours the grief, 
To gaze on Beauty's band without its chief: 
Vet comfortstill one selfish thought imparts, 
We lose the portrait, but preserve our hearts. 
What can his vaulted gallery now disclose? 
I garden with all flowers— except the rose ;— 

18 



A fount that only wants its living stream ; 
A night, with every star, save Dion's beam. 
Lost to our eyes the present forms shall be, 
That turn from tracing them to dream of thee , 
And more on that recall'd resemblance pause.. 
Than all he shall not force on our applause. 

Long may thy yet meridian lustre shine 
With all that Virtue asks of Homage thine ; 
The symmetry of youth — the grace of mien- 
The eye that gladdens — and the brow serene 
The glossy darkness of that clustering hair, 
Which shades, yet shows that forehead mor« 
than fair! [throws 

Each glance that wins us, and the life tha 
A spell which will not let our looks repose, 
But turn to gaze again, and find anew 
Some charm that well rewards another view. 
These are not lessen'd, these are still as bright, 
Albeit too dazzling for a dotard's sight ; 
And those must wait till ev'ry charm is gone. 
To please the pai try heart thatpleases none . — 
That dull cold sensualist, whose sickly eye 
In envious dimness pass'd thy portrait by ; 
Who rack'd his little spirit to combine 
Its hate of Freedom's, loveliness, and thine. 

August, 1814. 



ANTITHESES. 

Where rivers smoothest run, deep are the 
fords : 
The dial stirs, yet none perceive it move ; 
The firmest faith is in the fewest words; 

The turtles cannot sing, and yet the\ iOv. 
True hearts have eyes and ears, no tongues 

to speak ; 
They hear, and see, and sigh ; and then tnt*T 
break. 



AN IMITATION. 

A blithe and bonny country lass, 

Heigh ho ! bonny lass ; 
Sate sighing on the tender grass. 

And, weeping, said : — " Will none coiw 
woo me ?" 
A smicker boy, a lither swain, 

Heigh ho ! a smicker swain ; 
That in his love was wanton, fain, 

With smiling looks, cumt straight tuu.^ %m 



!58 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



When, as the wanton wench espied, 
Heigh ho ! when she espied 

The means to make herself a bride, 
She simper'd smooth, like bonny belL 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 31 



O Lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros 
Ducentium ortus ex amnio : quater 
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem 

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit." 

Gray's Poemnit 



ELEGIAC STANZAS ON THE DEATH 
OF SIR PETER PARKER, BART™ 

Theee is a tear for all that die, 

A mourner o'er the humblest grave ; 

But nations sweil the funeral cry, 

And Triumph weeps above the brave. 

For them is Sorrow's purest sigh 
O'er Ocean's heaving bosom sent : 

In vani their bones unburied lie, 
Al 1 earth becomes their monument ' 

A tomb is theirs on every page, 

An epitaph on every tongue ; 
The present hours, the future age, 

For them bewail, to them belong. 

For them the voice of festal mirth 

Grows hush'd, their name the only sound; 

While deep Remembrance pours to Worth 
The goblet's tributary round. 

A theme to crowds that knew them not, 

Lamented by admiring foes, 
Who would not share their glorious lot; 

Who would not die the death they chose? 

And gallant Parker ! thus enshrined 
Thy life, thy fall, thy fame shall be; 

And early valour, glowing, find 
A. model in thy memory. 

But there are breasts taat bleed with thee 
In woe, that glory cannot quell; 
nd shuddering hear of victory, 
W T here one so dear, so dauntless, felL 

Where shall they turn to mourn thee less? 

When cease to hear thy cherish'd name? 
Time cannot teach forgetfulness, 

While Grief's full heart is fed by Fame. 

Alas! for them, though not for thee, 

They cannot choose but weep the more) 

Deep for the dead the grief must be. 
Who ne'er gave cau^e to mourn before. 

October, IS 14. 



There's not a joy the world can give likj 

that it takes away, 
When the glow of early thought declines iii 

feeling's dull decay ; 
*T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush 

alone, which fades so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, era 

youth itself be past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck 

of happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean ol 

excess : 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only 

points in vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall 

never stretch again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death 

itself comes down; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not 

dream its own ; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain 

of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is 

where the ice appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and 

mirth distract the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more 

their former hopes of rest ; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret 

wreath, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn 

and grey beneath. 



Oh could I feel as I have felt, — or be what I 

have been, 
Or weep as I could once have wept, o'ermany 

a vanish' d scene ; 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all 

brackish though they be, 
So midst the wither' d wast« of life, those twin 

would flow to me. 

March, 18iA. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



259 



STANZAS FOR MUSIC. 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like thee ; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me : 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming. 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep ; 

Whose breast is gently heaving, 
As an infant's asleep: 

So the spirit bows before thee, 

To listen and adore thee ; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 



Show'ring down a fiery flood, 
Turning rivers into blood. a8 



The chief has fallen, but noi t»v yoa, 

Vanquishers of Waterloo ! 

When the soldier citizen 

Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men — 

Save in aeeds that led them on 

W r here Glory smiled on v Freedom's son — 

Who, of all the despots banded, 

With that youthtul chief competed? 

Who could boast o'er France defeated. 
Till lone Tyranny commanded ? 
Till, goaded by ambition's sting, 
The Hero sunk into the King ? 
Then he fell : — so perish all, 
Who would men 'jy man enthrall ! 



FAME AND FORTUNE. 

Let dull-brain'd slaves contend for mud and 
earth ; [and stones ; 

Let blocks and stones sweat but for blocks 
Let peasants speak of plenty and of dearth ; 

Fame never looks so low as on these drones ! 
Let Courage manage empires, sit on thrones ! 
And he that Fortune at command will keep, 
He must be sure he never let her sleep. 



ODE FROM THE FRENCH. 



We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! 
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew ; 
There 't was shed, but is not sunk — 
Rising from each gory trunk, 
Like the water-spout from ocean, 
With a strong and growing motion- 
It soars, and mingles in the air, 
With that of lost Labedoyere — 
With that of him whose honour'd grave 
Contains the " bravest of the brave." 
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, 
But shall return from whence it rose ; 
When 't is full 't will burst asunder — 
Never yet was heard such thunder, 
As then shall shake the world with wonder- 
Never yei was seen such lightning 
As «'er heaven shall then be bright'ning ! 
Like the Wormwood Star foretold 
By the sainted Seer of old, 



And thou, too, of the snow-white plume . 
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb i 31 
Better hadst thou still been leading 
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding, 
Than sold thyself to death and shame 
For a meanly royal name; 
Such as he of Naples wears, 
Who thy blood-bought title bears. 
Little didst thou deem, when dasning 

On thy war-horse through the ranks 

Like a stream which bursts its banks, 
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, 
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee — 
Of the fate at last which found thee: 
Was that haughty plume laid low 
By a slave's dishonest blow? 
Once — as the Moon sways o'er the tide, 
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide , 
Through the smoke-created night 
Of the black and sulphurous fight, 
The soldier raised his seeking eye 
To catch that crest's ascendency — 
And as it onward rolling rose, 
So moved his heart upon our foes. 
There, where death'sbriefpang was quick "» 
And the battle's wreck lay thickest, 
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner 

Of the eagle's burning crest — 
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her. 
Who could then her wings arrest — 

Victory beaming from her breast?) 
While the broken line enlarging 

Fell, or fled along the plain ; 
There be sure was Murat charging ! 

There he ne'er shall charge again I 
s 2 



260 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



O'er glories gone the invaders march, 

Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch — 

But let Freedom rejoice, 

With her heart in her voice : 

But, hei hand on her sword, 

Doubly shail she be adored; 

Fiance hath twice too well been taught 

The " moral lesson " dearly bought — 

Her safety sits not on a throne, 

With Capet or Napoleon ! 

But in equal rights and laws, 

Hearts and hands in one great cause — 

Freedom, such as God hath given 

Unto all beneath his heaven, 

With their breath, and from their birth. 

Though Guilt would sweep it from the eaitr 

With a fierce and lavish hand 

Scattering nations wealth like sand ; 

Pouring nations' blood like water, 

In imperial seas of slaughter ! 



But the heart and the mind, 
And the voice of mankind, 
Shall arise in communion — 
And who shall resist that proud union? 
The time is past when swords subdued- 
Man may die — the soul's renew 'd • 
Even in this low world of care 
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir; 
Millions breathe but to inherit 
Her for ever bounding spirit — 
When once more her hosts assemble, 
Tyrants shall believe and tremble — 
Smile they at this idle threat ? 
Crimson tears will follow yet. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 

Must thou go, my glorious Chief,** 4 

Sever'd from thy faithful few? 
Who can tell thy warrior's grief, 

Maddening o'er that long adieu ? 
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal, 

Dear as both have been to me — 
What are they to all I feel, 

With a soldier's faith for thee ? 

La-iS of th'i soldier's soul ! 

F : rst in light, but mightiest now : 
Blatty could a world control ; 

Thee aione no doom can bow. 



By thy side for yeais I dared 

Death ; and envied those who fell, 

When their dying shout was heard. 
Blessing him they served so well. 35 

Would that I were cold with those, 

Since this hour I live to see ; 
When the doubts of coward foes 

Scarce dare trust a man with thee. 
Dreading each should set thee free ! 

Oh ! although in dungeons pent, 
All their chains were light to me 

Gazing on thy soul unbent. 

Would the sycophants of him 

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, 
Were his borrow'd glories dim, 

In his native darkness share? 
Were that world this hour his own, 

All thou calmly dost resign. 
Could he purchase with that throne 

Hearts like those which still are thine ♦ 

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu ! 

Never did I droop before ; 
Never to my sovereign sue, 

As his foes I now implore : 
All I ask is to divide 

Every peril he must brave ; 
Sharing by the hero's side 

His fall, his exile, and his grave, 



ON THE STAR OF "THE LEGION C* 
HONOUR." 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Star of the brave ! — whose beam hath shed 
Such glory o'er the quick and dead — 
Thou radiant and adored deceit ! 
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,- 
Wild meteor of immortal birth ! 
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth? 

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays ; 
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze 
The music of thy martial sphere 
Was fame on high and honour here ; 
And thy light broke on human eyes, 
Like a volcano of the skies. 

Like lava roll'd thy stream cf blood, 
And swept down empires w.th *»s huwi 
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base. 
As thou didst lighten through all spao<a ; 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



261 



And the shorn Sun grew dim in air, 
Ami set while thou wert dwelling there. 

Before thee rose, and with thee grew, 
A rainbow of the loveliest hue 
Of three bright colours, 36 each divine, 
And lit Tor that celestial sign; 

Fur Freedom's hand hud blended them, 
Like tints in an immortal gem. 

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes; 
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes; 
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white 
Had robed ; n radiance of its light: 
The three si/ mingled did beseem 
The texture of a heavenly dream. 

Star of the brave ! thy ray is pale, 
And darkness must again prevail ' 
But, oh th m Rainbow of the free! 
Our tears and blood must flow for thee. 
When thy bright promise fades away, 
Our life is but a load of clay. 

And Freedom hallows with her tread 
The silent cities of the dead; 
For beautiful in death are they 
Who proudly fall in her an ay; 
And soon, oh Goddess ! may Me be 
For evermore with them or thee ! 



Oh ! for the veteran hearts that were wasted 
In strife with the storm, when their battle* 
were won— [was blasted 

Then the Eagle, whose gaze hi that moment 
Had still soar'd with eyes nVd on victory's 



Farewell to thee, France. — but when Liberty 

rallies 
Once more in thy regions, remember me then— . 
The violet still grows in the depth of thy 

valleys ; 
Though wither'd.thy tear will unfold it again— 
\ et, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us 
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my 

voice — 
There are links which must break in the 

chain that has bound us, [choice 

Then turn thee and call on the Chief of the 



AN EPITAPH. 

You that seek what life is in death, 
Now find it air that once was breath. 
New names unknown — old names gone: 
Till time end bodies, and souls none. 

Reader use your time, — there be 

Few steps to your eternity. 



NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL. 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

Farewell to the Land, where the gloom of 

my. Glory [name — 

Arose and o'crshadow'd the earth with her 
She abandons me now — but the page of her 

story, [fame. 

The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my 
I have warr'd with a world which vanquished 

me only far; 

When the meteor of conquest allured me too 
I have coped with the nations which dread 

me thus lonely, 
The last single Captive to millions in war. 

Farewell to thee, France ! when thy diadem 

crown'd me, 
I made thee the gem and the wondev of earth, — 
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I 

found thee, 
Decay 'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth. 



DARKNESS. 

I had a dream, which was not all a dream 
The bright sun wasextinguish'd, and the stars 
Did wander darkling in the eternal space, 
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth [air; 
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless 
Morn carne and went — and came, and brought 

no day. 
And men forgot their passions in the dread 
Of this their desolation; and all hearts 
Were ehill'd into a selfish prayer for light: 
And they did live by watehfires — and the 

thrones, 
The palaces of crowned kings — the huts, 
The habitations of all things which dwell, 
Were burnt for beacons ; cities were consumed, 
And men were gather d round their blazinc 

homes 
To look once more into each other's face ; 
Happy were those who dwelt, within the eye 
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch : 
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd ; 



262 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



Forests were set on fire — but hour by hour 
They fell and faded — and the crackling trunks 
Extmgnish'd with a crash — and all was black. 
The brows of men by the despairing light 
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits 
The flashes fell upon them ; some lay down 
And hid their eyes and wept ; and some did 

rest [smiled ; 

Their chins upon their clenched hands, and 
And others hurried to and fro, and fed 
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up 
With mad disquietude on the dull sky, 
The pull of a past world ; and then again 
With curses cast them down upon the dust, 
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd : the wild 

birds shrick'd, 
And, terrified, did nutter on the ground, 
And flap their useless wings; thewildest brutes 
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd 
And twined themselves among the multitude, 
Hissing, but stingless — they were slain for 

food: 
\nd War, which for a moment was no more, 
Did glut himself again ; — a meal was bought 
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart 
Borging himself in gloom: no love was left ; 
All earth was but one thought — and that was 

death, 
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang 
Of famine fed upon all entrails — men [flesh; 
Died, a»d their bones were tombless as their 
»'he meagre by the meagre were devour d, 
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, 
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept 
The birds andbeasts andfamish'd men at bay 
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead 
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no 

food, 
But with a piteous and perpetual moan, 
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand 
Which answer'd not with a caress — he d:?i 
The crowd was famish'd by degrees ; but twc 
Of an enormous city did survive, 
And they were enemies : they met beside 
The dying embers of an altar-place 
Where had been heap'd amass of holy things 
For an unholy usage ; they raked up, [hands 
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton 
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath 
Blew for a little life, and made a flame 
Which was a mockery ; then they lifted up 
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld 
Each other's aspects — saw, and shriek'd, and 

died— 
Even of their mutual hideousness they di"d, 
Tb_V;nowing who he was upon whose brow 



Famine had written Fiend. Tat «ur..1 wa» 

void, 
The populous and the powerful was a lump, 
Seasoniess,herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless— 
A lump of death — a chaos of hard clay. 
The rivers, iakes, and ocean, all stood still. 
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths 
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, 
And their masts fell down piecemeal ; as they 

dropp'd 
They slept on the abyss without a surge — 
The waves were dead ; the tides were in theii 

grave, 
The Moon, their mistress, had expired before. 
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant aii. 
And the clouds perish'd ! Darkness had no 

need 
Of aid from them — She was the Universe. 

Diodati, July, I81G. 



CHURCHILL'S GRAVE ; 

I stood beside the grave of him who blazed 

The comet of a season, and I saw 
The humblest of all sepulchres, and gazed 

With not the less of sorrow and of awe 
On that neglected turf and quiet stone, 
W T ith name no clearer than the names un- 
known, 
Which lay unread around it ; and I ask'd 

The Gardenerof that ground, why itmightbe 
That for this plant strangers his memory task'd 

Through the thick deaths of half a centmy? 
And thus he answer'd — " Well, I do notknow 
Why frequent travellers turn to pilgrims so , 
He died before my day of Sexton ship, 

And I had not the digging of this grave." 
And is this all ? I thought, — and do we rip 

The veil of Immortality ? and crave 
I know not what of honour and of light 
Through unborn ages, to endure this blight? 
So soon, and so successless ? As I said. 
The Architect of all on which we tread, 
For earth is but a tombstone, did essay 
To extricate remembrance from the clay, 
Whose minfilings might confuse a Newton 
thought, 

Were it not that all life must end in one. 
Of which we are but dreamers ; — as he caught 
As 'twere the twilight of a former Sun, 
Thus spoke he. — "I believe the man of whom 
You wot. who lies in this selected tomb, 
Was a most famous writer in his day, [way 
And therefore travellers step from out theil 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



263 



\\ j-ey him honour, — and myself whate'er 
f-uir honour pleases," — then most pleased 
I shook 
From out my pocket's avaricious nook 
Some certain coins of silver, which as twere 
Perforce I gave this man, though I could spare 
So much but inconveniently : — Ye smile, 
I see ye, ye profane ones ! all the while, 
Because my homely phrase the truth would tell. 
You are the fools, not I — for I did dwell 
With a deep thought, and with a soften'd eye, 
On that Old Sexton's natural homily, 
In which there was Obscurity and Fame, — 
The Glory and the Nothing of a Name. 

Diodati, 1810, 



PROMETHEUS. 

Titan ! to whose immortal eyes 

The sufferings of mortality, 

Seen in their sad reality, 
Were not as things that gods despise ; 
What was thy pity's recompense? 
A silent suffering, and intense ; 
The rock, the vulture, and the chain, 
All that the proud can feel of pain, 
The agony they do not show 
The suffocating sense of woe, 

Which speaks but in its loneliness, 
And then is jealous lest the sky 
Shoidd have a listener, nor will sigh 

Until its voice is echoless. 

Titan ! to thee the strife was given 
Between the suffering and the will, 
Which torture where they cannot kill ; 
And the inexorable Heaven, 
And the deaf tyranny of Fate, 
The ruling principle of Hate, 
Which for its pleasure doth create 
Trie things it may annihilate. 
Refused thee even the boon to die : 
The wretched gift eternity 
Was thine — and thou hast borne it well. 
All that the Thunderer wrung from thee 
Was out the menace which flung back 
On luin the torments of thy rack : 
The fate thou didst so well foresee, 
But would not to appease him tell ; 
And in thy Silence was his Sentence, 
And in his Soul a vain repentance," 
And evil .dread so ill dissembled, 
"hat in his hand the lightnings trembled 



Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, 

To render with thy precepts If ss 

The sum of human wretchedness, 
And strengthen Man with his own mind; 
But. baffled as thou wert from high, 
Still in thy patient energy, 
In the endurance, and repulse 

Of thine impenetrable Spirit, 
Which Earth and Heaven could not convula* 

A mighty lesson we inherit ■ 
Thou art a symbol and a sign 

• To mortals of their fate and force ; 
Like thee, Man is in part divine, 

A troubled stream from a pure source ; 
And Man in portions can foresee 
His own funereal destiny ; 
His wretchedness, and his resistance, 
And his sad unallied existence : 
To which his Spirit may oppose 
Itself — and equal to all woes, 

And a firm will, and a deep sense, 
Which even in torture can descry 

Its own concenter'd recompense, 
Triumphant wherr it dares defy. 
And making Death a Victory 

Piodati, July, 1816 



A FRAGMENT 

Could I remount the river of my years 
To the first fountain of our smiles and tears, 
I would not trace again the stream of hours 
Between their outworn banks of wither 'a 

fiowers, 
But bid it How as now — until it glides 
Into the number of the nameless tides. * * • 

What is this Death? — a quiet of the heart? 
The whole of that of which we are a part? 
For life is but a vision — what I see 
Of all which lives alone is life to me, 
And being so — the absent are the dead, 
Who haunt us from tranquillity, and spread 
A dreary shroud around us, and invest 
With sad remembrancers our hours of rest. 

The absent are the dead — for they are co'd 
And ne'er caa be what once we did behold : 
And they are changed, and cheerless. — 01 'j 

vet 
The un forgotten do not all forget, 
Since thus divided — equal must it be 
If the deep barrier be of earth, or sea; 
It may be both — but one day end it must 
In the dark union of insensate dust 



■'■■' ■' 



264 



OCCASIONAL PIECES. 



The under-earth inhah tants — are they 
But mingled millions decomposed to clay ? 
The ashe.s of a thousand ages spread 
Wherever man has trodden or shall tread? 
Or do they in their silent cities dwell 
Each in his incommunicative cell? 
Or have they their own language ? and a sense 
Of* breathless being? — darken 'd and intense 
As midnight in her solitude? — Oh Earth! 
Where are the past ? — and wherefore had they 

birth ? 
The dead are thy inheritors — and we 
But bubbles on "thy surface ; and the key 
Of thy profundity is in the grave, 
The ubon portal of thy peopled cave, 
Wheie I would walk in spirit, and behold 
Our elements resolved to things untold, 
And fathom hidden wonders, and explore 
The essence of great bosoms now no more. * * 
Diodati, July, 1816. 



SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN. 

Rousseau — Voltaire — our Gibbon — and De 

Stael — [shore, 

Leman 3 * ! these names are worthy of thy 

Thy shore of names like these ! wert thou 

no more, 

Their memory thy remembrance would recall : 

To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 

But they have made them lovelier, for the 

lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 

Where dwelt the wise and wondrous ; but 
by thee, 
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, 

In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
The wild glow of \hat not ungentle zeal, 

Which of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real ! 
Diodati, July, 1816. 



LINES INSCRIBED IN A LADY'S 
ALBUM. 

/ere my career far brighter still than 
aught I have to boast, 
T would barely, then, deserve to fill some 
refuse page, at most ; 
But as it i>., ah ! how is this? 
Entitled to a place, [grace? 

Where that which occupies, at least should 



Some bards have written worthily up n as fan 

a leaf, 
And taught an after-age to ft el their pleasure 

or their grief, 
And won the ears, and wrung the tears 
From more obdurate eyes ; 
Yet such a power shall never reacn my s\gii!>. 

It were no humble doom to sing and to be 

listen'd to, 
And thus to write, could I be read and treasured 

up by you, 
But were it not a prouder lot 
To write as I do now, 
Did some present! ve glery gird my brow? 

To you alone it must be, then, with gnawing 

pride I own, [/er alone, 

I have to owe the honour which I would con- 

I thank you too as I should do 
For this my little nook, 
Which 'twere my boast to merit in your bock. 



FRAGMENT OF A PARAPHRASE OF 
PSALM CXXXVII. 

By the still streams of Babylon, 
"We mutely sat and spent thereon, 
And sent thereby our hapless tears, 
And sighs, to neighbour-lands and ears 
When our afflicting enemy, 
Reneweth fresh our memory, 
Set our sad mind to muse upon 
Poor Sion's desolation. 



LIFE, 

Ah life ! sweet drop drowned in a sea 0/ 

sours, 
A flying good, posting to doubtful end; 
Still loving months and years, to gain new 

hours ; 
Fain time to have and spare, yet forced to 

spend ; 
The gi\,.vth decrease a moment, all thou 

hast : 
That gone, are known the rest £0 conic, at 

past. 



OCCASIONAL PIECES 



26; 



WARM A8 THE CLOUDLESS 
SUMMER MORN. 

Warm as the cloudless summer morn, 

And full as hopeful too, 
Hie visions that in youth were born, 

And dazzled ere they new. 

Bright as the ruddy evening sky, 
Those dreams portray'd the world ; 

Vet all those colours seem'd to die, 
Fast as the scroll unfuri'd. 

Calm as the moonbeam on yon lakt, 

Whose glassy face is still, 
Did lying Hope the Future make, 

To conjure at her will. 

Sweet as the fitful evening breeze, 
With weight of perfume slow; 

imagination-»-breathing ease, 
Foretold young life would flow. 

Cold as the bitter north-east wind, 
That blights where'er it blows; 

The blasts that check us 'mongst mankind, 
And chill us in our woes. 

Dark as the coming stormy cloud, 

That Future when it came ; 
Whilst Slander, as its thunders loud, 

Would crush young struggling fame. 



There is no hair upon this shadowy k ;ad 
That hath not droop'd e'en as the spring, 
tide grass, 
When swift above the scythe too keenly sped ! 

There is no love within me left, alas ! 
Which hath not yet been reft of what it loved. 
There 's not one hope, one vision, one desire, 
Which has not perish'd fruitless and dis. 
proved ! 

* * • • * 

Thou Suffering, art man's great fashioner. 

E'en as the flame will e'er attemper steel ; 
Ay ! as the whetstone, blacken'd with the burr, 

Torn from the iron by the glowing wheel, 
Quickens the edge of the relentless sword ! 
He who has shown thee not, thou Master 
Fain, 
Yei knows no more of Life but the bare word, — 

He idly floats on Life as he, amain, 
Might float upon the sleepy summer cloud. — 
There's nought to mark the track in his 
career, 
Too vainly follow'd to be yet avow'd. 

Nor sweat from off his brow nor e'en 
tear 
Hath trickled down to damp the toilsome hand. 
His foot hath ne'er been bruised upon the 
stones, 
That strew the way. * * 

* * * • * 

Nor knows he how when dangers close his way, 
To make these very dangers serve his svay. 



Rough as the angry ocean's wave, 
The present drives us on, 

To live or die, to sink or save, 
But reckless flesh and hone. 



Fond hopes are easily believed, 
Good maxims safely given ; 

Who trust the first, will ue deceived, 
The last are dreams of Heaven ! 



AH ! TRIUMPH SORROW! 

An ! triumph Sorrow . There is no one string 
Within this heart of mine, that hath not rung 

Its shrill vibrations out to suffering ; 
1 here is no chord thou hast not sorely 
simc«r, 



Those mighty strides, those voices, and those 
cries, 
With all the endless uproar of the Earth, 
Shall die away, nor shock the silent skies ; 

And each new generation at its birth 
Shall learn contempt, for what was deen.'J 
sublime, 
And mute disdain for what erswhile w». 
grand ; 
And each successive age in every clime, 

In every zone or province, isle, or 'and. 
Shall see eternal silence floating o'er 

The wretched Past, with still and mtuV, 
wings, 
Wrap up man's noisy greatness, with his lor ; ; 
And gag for aye your Rulers and your Ein c . 
So not an echo shall revive them "more. 



266 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



INKZ DE CASTRO. 



A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. 

The melancholy story of Inez de Castro is too 
notorious in history to require any recapitulation. 
It would seem, that as early as the year 18l6, 
Lord Byron projected something like a tragedy, 
founded upon this material ; but whether it was 
ever carried further than the scene inserted here, 
is difficult to determine. This fragment is in- 
serted rather as a literary curiosity than on any 
otner account. 

ACT I. 



Don Pedro (entering stealthily and musing 
abstractedly ) 
What fond association draws me hither ? 
What uncontrollable affection binds 
And ties me to this spot, whilst something sad 
Foreshadowing of ills I dare not dread 
80 drearily proclaims the spot is curst ? 
Fearing those restless visions should be true, 
Perchance I come to see their thread fultill'd 
-nsensibly and as against my will 
My anxious steps in failing bear me on 
Yet why these presages ? why do we harp 
Upon the ills our fancy frames in dream ? 
Why do we dwell with such precise fore- 
thoughts 
Upon the phantom torments that beset us ? 
Have we not in reality enough 
To occupy the workings of the soul 
That we so seek to make the future tell 
8uch secrets as are better left untold ? 
Yet is this Reason which controls my thoughts? 
Tis Sophistry ! the Sophistry of Hope ! — 
Yet why? — Why not believe it for my good? 
Ah ! that I could ! That this belief could 

yield 
A moment's ease to my tormented soul * 
That with this sweet assurance, true or false, 
A svzeecer sleep could teach me to forget 
The dread that weighs upon me day and 

night. 
Ve saints who witness, pity my distress 
And thou, pure Maiden-mother, deign to look 
On injured innocence, to pity her, 
To plead for her on high and to protect ! 
Angels accord compassion to these tears. 
And plead more purely my unworthy prayers 
To win of heavenly solicitude, 
The blessings due to virtue and to her 
Ani pour those blessings on her — cherish 

her — 
Shelter «md guard- 



Inez. (approaching unperceived by him. 

They ever do protect her. 
Don Pedro. Inez ! 
Inez. Ah ! Prince ! 

Don Pedro (apart) What luckless wretch 
am I 
To love and ruin so much worth and beauty? 
Inez. Why turn thus from me Prince 
Do cares of state 
Pursue you in this kindred solitude, 
And rob me even here of a caiess' 
Can the oppressive load of great affairs 
Preoccupy you e'en in this retreat:'' 
It was once not so, Prince. 

Don Pedro. Oh pity me! 

Great God, have mercy on me and my sins . 
Inez. I leave you, Prince, since greater 
cares absorb 
And turn your thoughts from me, and since 

my voice. 
Once as I fondly deem'd so dear to you 
Obtrudes itself upon some worthier theme, 
And finds a cold repulse. 

Don Pedro, (seizing her hatid.) Cold saidV 
thou, Inez? 
In pity charge me not with that: my crime, 
If I be guilty, hath not been in coldness. 
Repulse thee, Inez coidd I once do that 
Thou might'st yet live secure, and I, at ease, 
Survive to see thee happy yet once more. 
Repulse thee, Inez ! — hear me — could I speak— 
This anguish — 

Inez, (gently resting her hand upon his 
shoulder). Dearest husband, be but 
calm. 
Don Pedro. Oh, Inez, spare me now at 

least that name. 
Inez. What ! must I then forget it in thy 
grief' 
Hast thou forgotten that I am thy wife : — 
Then when, as now, thine eye erewhile so soft 
In darkening flashes anguish from thy brow: — 
That when thy cheek convulsed with agony 
Betrays the secret throe, when thy wan lip 
Tells of some parching fever that consume! 

thee 
I should forget it is my part to soothe thee ! 
Don Pedro. Is kindness such as this re- 

served for villains ? 
Inez. Villains ! 

Don Pedro. Yes! Inez, such a wretch ami! 

Inez. I loved no villain, Pedro, but a Prince 

Don Pedro. Prince! — Prince of Hell ! 'tig 

that that makes me villain 

H.ulst thou but sought to number 011. thj 

wrongs 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



267 



And heap reproach upon my suffering, 
That one word Prince .... 

Had wreak'd thy curse upon me ! 
But hear me, Inez. Dost thou fondly deem 
That Royalty and Virtue are the same? 
That Goodness is the Birthright of a Throne; — 
Hereditary, like its cares and power: — 
That kings and sons of kings inherit this 
As an appendage to their jewell'd crown? 
'Tis in thine innocence to think it so; 
'Tis in thy gentleness to look on them 
As on the model in thy purer soul ; — 
But I will show thee — 

. Blessed Mary, help me ! — 

Inez. Nay tell me what afflicts thee ; let 
me share, 
Participate in, if I cannot soothe 
Ami charm away thy sorrow. There must be 
Some tearful cause to wring such sighs from thee, 
Thou wert not wont to speak so sternly tome. 

Don Pedro. Sternly ? Did 1 speak sternly 
Inez ? No ! 
I could not, would not be thus harsh with thee, 
1 would not add this to thy many wrongs. 

Inez. What wrongs ? I suffer none of thee. 

Don Pedro. Oh, God ! 

Is"t thus that innocence oppress'd upbraids 
Our conscious guilt with sweet forbearance? 

Inez. What guilt? What innocence? Col- 
lect thyself. 
The multitude of cares I wot not of, 
Hath conjured up some melancholy dream 
That mocks and tortures thee ; for are we not 
Both innocent, both pure and faithful too? 
But tell me, what it is that wounds thee so; 
The time was when thou wert not wont to feed 
Thy sorrows or thy joys in secrecy : — 
From that enchanting hour when first I learnt 
To think of thee apart from all mankind, 
As something nobler and more eminent, 
Till now, I never knew thee thus reserved. 
If anything had charm'd thee 'twas for me; 
J dangers had been run they were for me; 
ff honour gain'd, 'twas tender' d at my feet; 
If glory and renown pronounced thee Great, 
I knew and felt they had been earn'd for me, 
And 'midst thy toil a single thought of me 
Could renovate thy drooping energies. 
Thine were no false professions, empty words, 
Or senseless declarations, but deep moved 
By powerful emotions such as mine. 
If anything had cross'd or harass'd thee, 
Ft was to me the secret was disclosed, 
As if thy heart by natural sympathy 
Had been assured it had a kimked life, 
> tci..dred sensibility in mine. 



Don Pedro. Heavens! 
Inez. Can it be, thy confident is lost? 
That in thy greater sorrows I mu&t see, 
And silently lament thy suffering, 
Nor even know the cause of so much grief ? 
In what have I betray d thee, and what fault 
Hath made me thus suspected ? 

Don Pedro. Thou betray 'd 

I have not yet pronounced so false a charge. 
Would I were innocent, as thou hast been! 
Inez. Thou art ; and none more purely so 
than thou ! 
But tell me what it is that grieves thee so. 
Has any dared affront Don Pedro — stain'd 

his fame, 
Or sought to blast his honour? 

Don Pedro {convulsively grasping the hill 

of his sword) What? affront! 
Inez. It cannot be he should forget his 
valour, 
And let his spotless knighthood rust in shame. 
Don Pedro. Don Pedro knows himself, his 

iank and rights! 
Inez. Perchance remorse over a fallen foe? 
Don Pedro. Don Pedro knows of no re- 
morse, but shame ! 
Inez. T is well. Perchance some foreign 
enemy 
Combines to plunder his inheritance. 
Perchance the proud Castilian foams and 

threats 
The downl'al of his great ancestral throne? 
Don Pedro must yet feel himself a prince. 
Don Pedro. Again that title! Yes, he 
feels — he feels 
Too truly that the chance which gave hinc 

"birth, 
And placed him in a sphere which many men 
Would sacrifice their innocence to gain, 
Has been, and must henceforth for ever be, 
To him the torture of a miscreant's doom. 
He feels, that for that power so warmly sought, 
He must, or condescend to witness crime. 
And seeing virtue fall, refrain to help her, 
And thus confirm himself an arrant villain , 
Or, with the bootless lustre of a princedom, 
And with the title of authority, 
Yet impotently gaze upon her fall. 
Tell me, sweet Inez, could'st thou love & 

wretch — 
A recreant such as this : nor loathe the sighi 
Of one, however dear, who had preferrM 
His life before his honour? Could'st tknv 

call 
This miserable creature husband still? 
Could'st thou endure the filthy leprous touch 



268 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



To fix its shamed pallor on thy cheek? 
Wtre it not better tears should wash away 
The bloom that youth had breathed upon its 

sheen, 
Than this contagion should devour it ? 
Hast thou e'er heard, sweet Inez, of great men, 
Who, rather than by living to behold, 
Thus sanction crime, have turn'd their use- 
less swords 
Against a life disgraced by impotence, 
And thus become a burden to themselves, 
And vainer to the land which gave them birth? 
Inez. I may ; but to what purpose, ask me 

this? 
Don Pedro. Didst thou esteem them, or 
condemn the deed ? [me ! 

Inez. How strangely dost thou question 
Don Pedro, Would'st thou, 
Sweet Inez, seek to hold thy husband's hands, 
If that one blow could save thy husband's 
fame? 
Inez. What can this mean? It cannot 
surely be — [eye 

N o ! no ! thou would'st not turn ; yet in thine 
There is a wildness I ne'er saw before. 
Tell me, I pray — entreat — implore, what 511 ; 
Wha. sad reverse? By all the love thou 
bear'st, [hours 

Or may'st have borne me — by the tranquil 
Of secret, sweet enjoyment — by those ties 
Which bind us still more closely to each other, 
What dark catastrophe hath wrung thy soul, 
And suffered it to feed such thoughts as these. 
Remember — think — reflect. Thou art a father ! 
Don Pedro. Great God ! 
Inez. And I the mother 

of thy sons ! 
Don Pedro. Just Powers ! 
Ines. Who barely learn 

to lisp thy name, 
And to recite the glory of thy deeds; 
Who with exulting tears gaze up to me, 
Awaiting to be told the daily tale 
Of some new martial honour gained by thee. 



FRAGMENTS OF AN INCOMPLETE 
POEM. 

Should' st thou — and thou should'st know me 

— chance to read 

A line or two that anguish wreaks hereon ; 

Thou may'st perceive one woe hath been thy 

deed 

And in those hours when joy is reeling on, 



And suffering is heard with little heed, 

Should'st thou once chance to open and to 

eon, [deem, 

he page that claims thy pity, thou might'st 
My wrongs are not so paltry as they seem. 

Wrongs which my persecutors would have writ 

In blood more pure than mine — so pure their 

own : [been lit, 

Wrongs too, whose brand by thee had ers\ 
To be revived by any vulgar clown, 

Whose stupid grossness or whose barren wit 
Could count no breath but what himself 
had blown, 

So sweet, or pure, or hallow'd as his tongue, 

Or fit supply for his all-hallow'd lung. 

And in those hours of grief, which God forefend, 

•But which will happen to the happiest, 
Should'st thou thyself in passing chance to 
bend, 
A tearful g'ance ofkindred interest — 
Whilst scalding tears, may be, likeminedescend, 
To sear thy cheek, or sighs convulse thy rest; 
Upon this sheet. Oh! may'st thou not repent, 
That e'er another heart by thee was rent. 

But will such thoughts not come ? When far 
away, 
From whence the full forgiveness is unheard, 
Which love has daily breathed : when day by 
day, 
The wretched recollection has recurr'd, 
And none declare what one alone could say, 
May-be thine ears will yearn to hear that 
word. 
Look then but smilingly upon this lay ; 
It breathes in candour all that one could say. 

It has return'd his blessing for thy curse : 
It has retorted constant love for hate: 

It would then soothe thine anguish as anurs . 
It would console thee when disconsolate : 

It would defend thee when thy foes asperse • 
It would protect thine unprotected state. 

Such is his vengeance, such his harsh return 

For injury, contumely and spurn !■— 

Twill be his joy to aid thee if he can : 

'Twill be his pride his solace should avail . 

'Twill be his glory to conduct the van 

Against thy foes, and fighting: for the frail. 

'Twill be his boast t'approve himself a man: 
The more thy banded enemies prevail, 

The worthier of him t'oppose the throng. 

And join the weaker to o'ercome the strong.—* 

This is my youth again, heroic age, [man 

Which some harsh convert in the track u 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



269 



Had damp d or curdled for this later stage. 

I had scarce thought it when my course began 
N'>r dreamt to turn, or satirist, or sage: 

Or that one sorrow could one half, it can ; 
But freshness comes with the recurring thought, 
Which cancels all the interval as nought. — 

A freshness in the which rny breath is free, 
My soul gains vigour, ainl my heart expands; 

As, in my sadder days of revelry, [hands, 
Twas once my wont, with fever-trembling 

To meet the early morning's revcillee. [lands, 
The morning freshness of all climes and 

Excepting London, where a ribald night, 

Is certainly not mended by the light. 

That sort of misty, smoky, dirty dawn 
Should be excluded from all simile : 

*nfit, but to provoke a lazy yawn, 

E'en in the most accustom'd debauchee ; 

Your Picadilly pavement for a lawn, 
And Crockford's looking dingy as may be, 

With a few loungers reeling home to bed, 

Or fancying the gutter in its stead. 

Now, charming critics, I have done: — Tis time 
To turn my independent thoughts to you, 

And, though I don't submit a single rhyme, 
To your adjudication — we'll pursue 

A style of raving, tempting the sublime, 
And start at once into our story too, 

If erely because it suits my present whim, 

Aptly to use the pen I freshly trim 

Twill be, unlike my labours heretofore, — 
Just written as a learned scribe dictated; 

Although in reading some Romance of yore, 
An Amadis or something antiquated 

And stulfd with chivalry — I slyly swore 
The worthy Doctor stole or had dilated, 

On some such tale he found in the collections., 

Just published with additions and corrections. 

I cannot well be blamed upon this score: 
'Tis not my fault and that is much to say. 

Tales are not, either, now, as heretofore, 
Obliged to be original to pay ; 

And Publishers are pleased with any bore, 
And as contented quite as if a stray 

And lost Boccaccio sprung to modern light, 

Or if Cervantes left the tomb to write. 

-•f " Peregrine " or " Tom " appear'd but now, 

Or "Joseph" was but recently produced, 
lour Fieldings would be forced to make their 
how, 
And quit the literary stage, reduced 



To keep some poultry, or a breed ir.«g bow, 
And serve as instances to be ad. r lnce<.. 
To warn real wits that such a vein as theirs 
Would leave but little to their hapless heirs. 

If Ariosto wrote — " quis talia fando 

Of all real poets, would refrain from tears" 

And Harrington translated the Orlando, 
They 'd find but few to lend their moder a 
ears. 

And yet what better can the ablest man do. 
'Mongst all the nineteenth century reveres? 

Poor Southey looks astonishingly small. 

In point of Fame, if he be famed at all. 

But as he writes to fill his precious pocket. 

'Tis not surprising that he writes so badly, 
And, for his style, so many strive to mock it, 

That none can wonder all should fail so 
sadly ; 
In truth he has nor style, nor wit to stock it, 

Although some girls devour his books so 
madly ; 
Poor Bob! 'tis hard one cannot prophesy, 
A scrap of reputation when you die 

But, let me see. I had made up my mind 
To try a legend of the middle ages; 

This vein has grown quite popular I find. 
Since Southey look to borrowing Scott's 
pages. 

There's one thinggain'd in stories of this kip<i. 
One is not hamper'd by the precious sh^cp 

Who prose about their classic balderdasi 

And damn all verse but overstudied trash. 

The barbarism of Gothic ignorance 
Is illustrated in our every sound. 

When ruthless hardihood left lore to chance, 
And trampled ancient learning on tb.9 
ground. 

We could not hope to wikc, as from a trance, 
Endued with all the Isles of Greece had 
found 

Of beauty, symmetry, and eloquence, 

In nature, wrought by art the most intense. 

So let us be contented if we can, 

With somethingmore akin to Gothic rhyme. 
About the period when those wars began, 

Which were deem'd sacred for their very 
crime, 
There lived a disinherited old man 

Who had possess'd some treasure in his 
time, [fair 

And whose domain had been as broad and 
As any we might meet with here or there. 



270 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



The church had stripp'd him of his every acre: 
And most considerately so, I have no doubt 
That 't might be consecrated to the Maker; 
Although some rumours which were spread 
about 
Were sadly detrimental to the taker; 

And as the lives and claims had not died 
out; [wrested, 

T was not conceal'd, the lands might yet be 
From those by whom they were erewhile in- 
fested 

The heir apparent's grave preceptor was 
A worthy father of the sable hood, 

Who suffer' d no occasion e'er to pass, 

For forwarding the prospects of his brood 

And, as young Roderic was the last, alas . 
To represent the titles of his blood, 

The worthy friar seized the first occasion, 

To clear the coast by force or by persuasion. 

He spoke of glory, or a holy grave, [fame ; 

Of conquest's realms, and vast domains and 
He primed him up with many a martial stave 

And sung of heroes, and a deathless name; 
He named some soldier and his lovely slave, 
And fann'd the lovers with the hero's flame ; 
Till Roderic, who was young and therefore 

wild, 
Vow'd to depart — at which his Mentor smiled. 

In vain two parents struggled to retain 

Th' adventurous little maniac from the field: 
A lovely sister held him back in vain, 

And 'kiss'd the hand by which she sadly 
kneel' d ; 
In vain she sprung upon his neck again, 

And wept until her little senses reel'd, 

And kiss'd his cheeks, and prattled out her 

prayer, [share. 

Whilst there were wealth and eminence to 

For thus he fondly dreamt that it should be ; 

He was in this, like other boys, and saw, 
Admired, and courted any vanity. 

The veriest, paltry edifice of straw, 
Thus raised before him would have won his e'e, 

And struck him with the most respectful 
awe ; 
And all those splendid castles in the air, 
He daily saw, seem'd wonderfully fair. 

So he departed with a martial throng 

Of knights and squires, and ragged vaga- 
bonds, [and strong: — 

And thieves and cut-throats, frail, and sick 
Just as a young apprentice oft absconds 



With some young lady he had sigh'd f jr long 

And when he 'd loosen all patrimonial bond* 

And found himself his own ungovern'u master 

Those dazzling dreams came crowding in thi 

faster. 

But truth, in blushing, is compell'd to own 
That Roderic was eany left behind : 

His having join'd the army was not known 
For many days, before a man as blind 

As Love himself, and rough as any stone, — 
An ill-condition'd wretch as you might find 

Was brought before our hero by a crone, 

Quite old enough to play the chaperon. 

He flatter'd, fawn'd, and bow'd to Roderic, 
And praised his valour, person, gait, ad- 
dress, 

And parentage — and all, — though Arabic, 
Or such outlandish dialect, was less 

Unknown to him, most likely : trick on trick 
Was plied, to make the silly youth confess, 

The very knowledge that was used to prove 

His aged tempter's interest or love 

Of all the youths who emulate renown, 
There's probably not one who can witfc 
stand 

The flattering notice, even of a clown ; 
And Roderic was, therefore, quite u* 
mann'd. 

He listen'd to advice without a frown, 
And this is rare in boys, you understand. 

And at all times must be well larded over 

With flattery — that intellectual clover. 

Thus, when you wish to conquer, you must 
yield, 

And feign respect, before you can obtain it. 
The better your advantage is conceal'd, 

The more assured you ever are to gain it. 
The human heart is, bit by bit, unseal'd, 

And seal'd again. Tis easy to retain it, 
When you have gently closed it o'er the tie 
That binds it to your subtle agency. 

Flush'd by this seer with brighter dreams 
than ever, [where 

Roderic would now have follow'd any 
His Mentor led; whilst he, too shrewd ana 
clever, 

To clo.>e at once the promising affair, 
Excited his impatience to a fever, 

And dallied with him, bidding him prepare 
To undertake some daring enterprise, [plies. 
Whilst he went gathering soldiers and sup 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



27 I 



Few days elapsed before the seer return'd, 
Having collected no such mean array: 

For, somehow, all the ablest soldiers yearn'd 
For something more like battalous affray. 

The sort of riot rout was what they spurn'd, 
And they got sick of inarching day on day: 

So that the very sound of feats of daring 

Set all your brave adventurers preparing. 

They gather'd round the aged man to hear, 
And greedily devour his speeious tale : 

He told them, love, and wealth, and fame 

were near, [hail. 

And show'd young Roderic as the chief to 

They met their youthful leader with a cheer, 
Nor deem'd they that an enterprise could 
fail, 

Conducted by such age and youth, combined 

With more of wisdom than we mostly find. 

The bearing of the youthful chieftain, too,— 
His noble carriage, and attractive mien 

Subdued the arrogant and haughty few, 
Who might disclaim a leader of sixteen, 

And won respect from those from whom 'twas 
due; 
So that as nice a squad as e'er was seen 

Was very soon prepared to take a start, 

And leave the corps d'armee to do its part. 

Suffice 't to say, our hero's little band, 

Abandon'd their original career, 
And, marching o'er a sterile plain of sand, 

Halted at noon before the rarest cheer. 
E'er conjur'd by some satanistic wand, 

At least, 'tis thus the fact will e'er appear; 
For how the devil else the banquet came, 
Would puzzle them, or you, or me to name, 

Howe'er this be, they fed, and laughed, and 
drank, 
And found the liquor so extremely good, 
That half of them too prematurely s ink, 
And soon in sleeping dreamt of drink and 
food ; 
And very early the surrounding bank, 

With nearly all the glorious troop was 
strew'd, [vanish'd, 

Meanwhile — I can't te'd how — the old man 
And all the banquet was as quickly banish'd. 

Voung Roderic, and those who had withstood 
Too free indulgence in the strong potations, 

Were taken with a strange exploring mood, 
And started straight on their perambu- 
lations. 



It seems to me, that could the scene be vie* i 
It would remind you of those sweet « »l> 
Unions 
Of spiders and hard eggs, in private parks 
Called picnic parties by your modern spa s 

They were attracted, in their lazy rambles 
By peals of laughter from some nei^a- 
bouring glade, 
For twas a forest. To defy the braiables, 
And reach the scene where many a merry 
maid, 
And half- arm *d youth were playing off then 
gambols, 
With somewhat less of decency display 'd 
Than would have pleased our Southey'i 

squeamish taste, 
Or any »ady very prim and chaste. 

I do love decency not affectation, 
And had much rather see a silly girl 

Play her own part than ape an old relation; 
I'd rather see her unbound locks to curl 

All loosely round her neck, and dissipation 
Flash satire from her eye against the churl 

Or cynic Spinster that would play the prude, 

Than feign to be so eminently good. 

If there were really magic in the case, 
There can be very little doubt, I ween, 

But magic drew our hero to this place. 

And wholly conjured this enchanting scene 

Those sorcerers are a mighty cunning race.— 
And know how lads who ever have been greeo 

Are to be caught with pretty cheeks and 
dimples, 

And smiles and dances, and such other simples. 

So when they want to catch a handsome boy, 
They generally choose a pretty figure 

And dimpled cheek, to bait him with their toy: 
Perhaps for Africans they'd have a nigger ; 

But in the north a face as dark as soy. 

And waist-band like a hoop, or somewha; 
bigger, 

W'mld barely win a handsome errant knight 

To play Medoro and forget to fight. 

It was in somewhat a resembling way, 
That secret agent spoken of above 

Led Roderic and his party thus astray, 
Reducing them 1 scarce dare say to love, 

For such it seem'd in that eventful day, 
Was likely to detain them in the " grave.' 

They wonder 'd long at. the unwonted seea% 

Imagining, perhaps, they were unseen ; 



272 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



But the dear creatures are not Ions? to see 
When admiration turns the steady eye ;— 

There's nothing quicker than their vanity, 
And though they feign to blush and whisper 
" fie/' 

There's nothing pleases them like flattery. 
The dancing ladies though by far too sly 

To »eem to notice their new stranger guests. 

Became more lavish of their charms and jests. 

The interlopers step by step advanced, 

And more enchanting still the girls became 

■Vnd more voluptuous as they gaily danced, 
With much of grace, but very little shame; 

rill suddenly a youth of their band glanced 
Towards where young Roderic — who was 
worse than flame, — 

Kept drawing closer to his favourite fair one. 

As if determin'd at the least to share one. 

This was the signal for a rush to arms : — 
The ladies feigning, for the time, to fly, — 

Becoming somewhat less profuse of charms, 
And falling to the rear stood calmly by. 

Whilst Roderic bow'd to quiet their alarms, 
And, like a valiant knight of chivalry, 

Stood courteously aloof, to give his foes 

Full time to arm them, should they come to 
blows. 

As if he had been fifty years a knight, 
He then demanded as the price of peace, 

The lady whom he pointed out to sight; 
She ogled Roderic to obtain release 

And feign'd to urge her champion to the fight 
Although she heartily wish'd him deceased, 

Since handsome Roderic had so charm'd her 
sight, 

And had estranged her late affections quite. 

This cool demand was valiantly declined, 
So that both parties sprung upon their 
steeds. * 

We had not thought of horses, as I find, 
'Till now ; so that the critic, as he reads, 

Will find this void exactly to his mind, 

And just the place to number my misdeeds, 

In loosely writing, with no thought or rule, 

And blacken me, to write himself a fool. 

The truth is, had these horses been produced 
Upon the scene a little while before, 

They had been fodderlessly introduced, 

And yot'.'d have deem 'd them but a sorry 
score, 

had pictured them as piteously reduced, 
Like that of gallant Hu iibras of yore ; 



And epic grandeur would th ts dwindle Jowi 
To something meaner than a prince or crown. 

Tis ridicule we all the most abhor; 

A right good reason why a certain paper 
That moved my laughter, show'd itself so sore 

Derision suffers nothing to escape her, 
That looks like overplenitude in lore. 

And smiles most keenly upon those who 
ape her; 
And when a falsehood strives to shelter folly, 
Her every gibe becomes a rod of holly. 

Think'st thou not so my able Public-thinker? 

Hath she not well-nigh tickled theetodeath; 
My little lying patchwork Folly-tinker? 

For God's ',ake spare thy little brains and 
breath, 
For thoa art too contemptible to sink her : — 

And, when thou feel'st the truth of what sIm 
saith, • 

Strive to amend, but let not any see, 
Thou hast been nettled by her repartee. 

This dread of the ridiculous withheld 
The earlier introduction of my horses, 

Which were as fine as ever you beheld, 
Nor were the worst part of our hero's forces; 

And Roderic thought so, for he justly held 
These horses 'mongst the best of bis re 
sources, 

Perhaps as much for fleetness as for mettle : 

For speed is sometimes the bestnieans to settle. 

And foes were marshall'd, valiant mortai foes, 
With shield opposed to shield, and spear to 
spear. 

And all the ardour of the brave arose, 
As that terrific struggle drew more near: 

And twenty crests to twenty proudly rose, 
Despising death and ridiculing fear, 

And calmly waving o'er the tranquil field, 

Where some should conquer and where some 
should yield. 

They look'd like pennons streaming o'erthe sea. 
That heaved beneath them with its silent 
threat, 
Spurning that threat with their serenity. 
Yet, when those bristling lances should hav« 
met, 
And lie in splinters o'er mortality, 

Like these their useless wreck should pay 
the debt, 
That outraged powers demanded of their prida. 
To sport withal — neglect — despise — deridfl ! 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



27: 



And ttaei. the chaise came clashing from each 
si tie, 

And shivering lances flow, and riders fell, 
And horses reel'd a retrograding stride. — 

The ring of shields had struck the mournful 
kneli 
Of four on Roderic's side, who bled and died, 

And one tow brave and youthful damozel, 
Who proudly aim'd his emulative spear 
At Roderic's crest, despising humbler gear, 

But Roderic's lance was shiver'd by the 
stroke : 

And, now he was assail'd on either hand, 
The battle with the chief became no joke. 

And as his horse could now but barely stand, 
And, as his treacherous sword moreover broke, 

He seized the nearest of the adverse band — 
Having alighted — dragg'd him also down, 
And sprung upon his charger as his own. 

He was but barely seated, when a blow 
Aimed by no novice hand attain'd his crest, 

And forced it down upon his saddle bow ; 
The ringing helmet yet withstood the test, 

And though he reel'd beneath the stroke, and 
though 
His head awhile hung senseless on his 
breast, 

A fri;ndly hand opposed the exulting foe, 

And saved a second, and more fatal blow. 

Stung with discomfiture, and shame, and rage, 
As soon as he recover'd from the stun, 

He spurr'd his ste^d and flew to re-engage ; 
The battle-axe that glitter'd in the sun, 

Seem'd to flash fire, and willing flames to wage 
The red destruction, as he fought and won: 

And every blow dealt senselessness or death, 

And rung victorious o'er the passing breath. 

Now to the right he whirl'd the flashing steet, 
Now to the left opposed the faithful shield; 

One moment saw a youthful warrior reel, 
And fall extended on the blood-stain'd field; 

Another saw our furious chieftain wheel, 
And stretch some veteran yet loath to yield 

A lifeless corse beneath his charger's hoof, 

Or crush the coward that withdrew aloof. 

The fearful odds were thus reduced to par : 
For, though, at first, his party sadly fail'd, 

Such is the strange and changing fate of war, 
That now in numbers, even they prevail'd: 

And, in successful bravery by far ; 
For every adversary fairly quail'd, 

19 



Before young Roderic's axe, and feebiy slruc 
As if he durst not trust his arm or luck. 

And Fortune, who's a shameless sycophant, 
Had well-nigh thrown herself in Roderic' 
arms, 

To yield the prize her hands so often grant, 
And court the victor with her faithles 
charms ; 

When — Bob can tell youhow — I really can't— 
A band of stalwart giant men-at-arms, 

Who had been somehow conjured or conceal'd 

Appear'd to recontest the well-fought field. 

Our fainting heroes sicken'd at the sight, 
Their still more fainting foes rejoiced to see, 

But Roderic was by far too proud for flight ; 
And ladies held the palm of victory, — 

Which is no small incentive to a knight; 
And even they who would not blush to fie« 

Before a man alone; when women judge 

The honour of the field, would scorn to budge 

The new assailants were the quaintest train, 
That ever figured in a strange romance; — 
Their arms were rude, uncouth, grotesque and 
plain : 
Nor polish'd sword they bore, nor well 
poised lance, 
But ponderous axes, foul with many a stain, 

And clubs too, such as you or I by chanc* 
Might move — but handling is another question 
Which might not suit our strength or our diges- 
tion. 

Their height was, God Almighty knows how 
great, [a stack , 

Their breadth was — oh, ah ! somewhat like 
They strode aloug at such prodigious rate, 

Ye 'd scarce have caught them with a siag- 
hound pack ; 
To have engaged such monsters separate, 

It scemd would need an army at one's back. 
But when they came down fifteen at a time, 
The fight becomes a mere affair of rhyme. 

'T is very easy to relate the tale, 

And no way more improbable than are 

One half of those our novelists retail, 
And tell as acts of an authentic war; 

And, though the story 's " somewhat like a 
whale," 
In prodigy 'twill not outdo by far 

The truth through microscopic Southey's me- 
dium : 

Nor, at, I trust, oppress yon with much tedium' 



274 



ATTRIBUTED PIECES. 



The first that came, as if he meant to show off, 
Be^ati parading round his smaller foes; 

But Roderic flung his axe and cut his toe off, 
Whilst some one else deprived him of his 
nose ; 

And as he now could neither fight nor go off. 
They managed to dispatch him with few 
blows. 

And as his comrades came up rather late, 

Ere they arrived, his trunk had lost its pate. 

Exasperated at their comrade's fall 

And little dreaming they would have to fight 

With such a lilliputiau general. 

And fancying they'd vanquish him by fright, 

The giants warn'd the youthful mareschal 
With horrid oaths that if he ventured flight, 

They would annihilate his steed and all, 

Anil eat their flesh by way of funeral. 

Now Roderic, who felt the fearful taunt 
And knew in truth how weak his party were, 

Natheless was not the boy a threat could daunt, 
And bad them capture and then eat their 
hare. 

That mode he said was taught him by his aunt, 
Who was an editress of dainty fare, 

And often with some wisdom had observed 

That plums are gather'd ere they are preserved. 

There is no telling whence an able mind, 
Such as was Roderic's may gather know- 
ledge, — 

And that too of a philosophic kind ; — 

And every scholar surely will acknowledge 

That what is useful of it to mankind, 
Is found in cookery as well as college: 

A hint worth knowing to that great Society, 

Who cram theyoung with wisdom to satiety. 

Some men seek wisdom in a spider's thread, — 
And some have found it in this simple way, 

As all will fairly own, who e'er have read 
A certain story of a certain day; — 

Some find it in repentance, when they wed, | 
And not uncommonly as many say. 

Roderic. you see, acquired it of his aunt, 

And none, my friend, will dare assert you can't. 

The pert reply which Roderic had made, 
Was quite enough to aggravate a saint — 

A.nd giants are not always of that trade, 

And therefore do not practise such restraint. 

To it they went with knotted club to blade, 
With much of power but with little feint, 



Despising all the tricks of practised jwordi 

men, 
Or vantage that the art of arms affords men. 

The brave Ribaldo fell and mighty 'Greorgs 
Smash'd to a thousand atoms by Grimskal 
kin, 
Whilst Reginald made Pedagog disgorge 
Some precious feast indulged in with Grimal- 
kin — 
A fellow labourer at the Cyclop forge 

With boots he might have tepp'd from 
Brest to Balkh in, 
And body next to which St. Paul's would look 
Much like this volume next some graver book. 

And Roderic all this while was twisting, leap- 
in,?. 

Attacking, pirouetting here or there, 
In fact was doing everything but sleeping, 

Evading every blow with wondrous care: 
And when he had the chance forever steeping 

His sword in some fresh wound: — nor did 
he spare 
His adversaries' legs, their bodies being. 
Within no reach for anything but seeing. 

The contest might have lasted out the day, 

But by some sad mischance a cruel blow 
Stretch'd our young chieftain on a bed of clay , 

And all the rest made of their heel and toe 
The common use with people in dismay; — 

In fact, considering it time to go, 
I am ashamed to own they rau away, 

Leaving the giants with their helpless prey. 

And after all they were not v^ry base: — 
They fought with no such flimsy braver} 

Until they found theirs was a desperate cas« 
And that, unaided by his gallantry, 

Their only hope of safety was their pace ;— 
To do them justice too they thought that n« 

Was fairly kill'd, as any would have bought 

Who saw with what an enemy he fought. 

Nor can we blame them, for the giants too 
Were so assured that Roderic was dead. 

That they ne'er took the pains to go and view 
What kind of wound it was from which he 
bled. 

Nor had they time to think of those they slew 
Nor to pursue the recreant ones that fled, 

For they lamented man/ a lifeles" friend, 

And had the wounded of their own to terni. 



jtauitip 



ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON. R. B. SHERIDAN. 



SPOKEN AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE. 



Witejw the last sunshine of expiring day 
In summer's twilight weeps itself away. 
Who hath not felt the softness of the hour 
Sink on the heart, as dew along the flower ? 
With a pure feeling which absorbs and awes 
While Nature makes that melancholy pause, 
Her breathing moment on the bridge where 

Time 
Of light and darkness forms an arch sublime, 
Who hath not shared that calm so still and 

deep, 
The voiceless thought which would not speak 

but weep, 
A holy concord — and a bright regret, 
A glorious sympathy with suns that set? 
'Tis not harsh sorrow — but a tenderer woe, 
Nameless, but dear to gentle hearts below, 
Felt wnhout bitterness — but full and clear, 
A sweet dejection — a transparent tear, 
Unmix'd with worldly grief or selfish stain, 
Shed without shame — and secret without pain. 

Even as the tenderness that hour instils 
When Summer's day declines along the hills, 
So feels the fulness of our heart and eyes, 
When all of Genius which can perish dies. 
A mighty Spirit is eclipsed — a Power 
Hath pass'd from day to darkness — to whose 

hour 
Of light no likeness is bequeath'd — no name, 
Focus at once of all the rays of Fame ! 
The flash of Wit — the bright Intelligence, 
The beam of Song — the blaze of Eloquence, 
Set with their Sun — but still have left behind 
The enduring produce of immortal Mind ; > 
Fruits of a genial morn, and glorious noon, 
A deathless part of him who died too soon. 
But small that portion of the wondrous whole, 
These sparkling segments of that circling soul, 
Whirh all embraced — and lighten'd ovei all, 
To cheer — to pierce — to please — or to appal. 
From the charm'd council to the festive board, 
Of human feelings the unbounded lord ; 



In whose acclaim the loftiest voice? vied. 
The praised — the proi d — who made uis prai* 

their pride. 
When the loud cry of trampled Hindostan 
Arose to Heaven in her appeal from man, 
His was the thunder — his the avenging rod, 
The wrath — the delegated voice of God ! 
Which shook the nations through his lip — and 

blazed 
Till vanquish'd senates trembled as Ihcj 

praised. 

And here, oh ! here, where yet all young 

and warm, 
The gay creations of his spirit charm, 
The matchless dialogue — the deathless wit, 
Which knew not what it was to intermit , 
The glowing, po.traita fresh from life, that 

bring 
Home to our hearts the truth from which they 

spring ; 
These wondrous beings of his Fancy, w.-oughl 
To fulness by the fiat of his thought, 
Here in their first abode you still may meet, 
Bright with the hues of his Promethean heat; 
A halo of the light of other days, 
Which still the splendour of its orb betrays. 

But should there be to whom the fatal blight 
Of failing Wisdom yields a base delight. 
Men who exult when minds of heavenly tone 
Jar in the music which was born their own, 
Still let them pause — ah ! little do they know 
That what to them seem'd Vice might be but 

W 7 oe. 
Hard is his fate on whom the public gaze 
Is fix'd for ever on detract or praise ; 
Repose denies her requiem to his name. 
And Folly loves the martyrdom of Fame. 
The secret enemy whose sleepless eye 
Stands sentinel — accuser — -judge — and spy. 
The foe — the fool — the jealous — and the vain 
The envious who but breathe in others' pain 



276 



MONODY ON SHERIDAN. 



Behold the host! delighting to deprave, 
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave, 
Watch every fault that daring Genius owes 
Half to the ardour which its birth bestows, 
Distort the truth, accumulate the lie, 
And like the pyramid of Calumny ! 
These are his portion — but if join'd to these 
Gaunt Poverty should league with deep 

Disease, 
If the high Spirit must forget to soar, 
And stoop to strive with Misery at the door, 
To soothe Indignity — and face to face 
Meet sordid Rage— and wrestle with Disgrace, 
To find in Hope but the renew'd caress, 
The serpent-fold of further Faithlessness : — 
If such may be the ills which men assail, 
What marvel if at last the mightiest fail ? 
Breasts to whom all the strength of feeling 

given 
Bear hearts electric — charged with fire from 

Heaven, 
Black with the rude collision, inly torn, 
By clouds surrounded, and on whirlwinds 

borne. 
Driven o'er the lowering atmosphere that nurst 
Thoughts which have turn'd to tnunder— 

soorch— -and burst 



But far from us and from cur mimic 
Such things should be — if such have eve* 

been ; 
Ours be the gentler wish, the kinder task. 
To give the tribute Glory need not ask, 
To mourn the vanish'd beam — and add ml 

mite 
Of praise in payment of a long delight. 
Ye Orator* ! whom yet your councils yield, 
Mourn for the veteran Hero of your field ! 
The worthy rival of the wondrous Three! 
Whose words were sparks of Immortality .' 
Ye Bards ! to whom the Drama's Muse is dear, 
He was your Master — emulate him here ! 
Ye men of wit and social eloquence ! 
He was your brother — bear his a>hes hence ! 
While Power of mind almost of boundless 

range, 
Complete in kind — as various as their change, 
While Eloquence — Wit — Poesy — and Mirth, 
That humbler Harmonist of care on Earth. 
Survive within our souls — whde livesour .sense 
Of pride in Mark's proud pre-eminence, 
Long shall we seek his likeness — long in vain, 
And turn to all of him which may remain, 
8ighing that Nature form'd but one such man 
And broke the die — in moulding Sheridan. 



Cljiltie f^aralti's pirjrtmajje 



A ROMAUNT. 



PREFACE. 

(TO THE FIBST AND SECOND CANTOS.] 

The following poem was written, for the most 
part, amidst the scenes which it attempts to 
describe. It was begun in Albania ; and the 
parts relative to Spain and Portugal were com- 
posed from the author's observations in those 
countries. Thus much it maybe necessary to 
state for the correctness of the descriptions. 
The scenes attempted to be sketched are in 
Spain, Portugal.Epirus. Acamania, and Greece. 
There, for the present, the poem stops: its re- 
ception wdl determine whether the author may 
venture to conduct his readers to the capital 
of the East, through Ionia and Phrygia: these 
two Cantos are merely experimental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the 
sake of giving some connection to the piece; 
which, however, makes no pretensions to re- 
gularity. It has been suggested to me by 
friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, 
♦.hat in this fictitious character," Childe Harold," 
I may incur the suspicion of having intended 
some real personage: this I beg leave, once 
for all, to disclaim — Harold is the child of ima- 
gination, for the purpose I have stated. In 
some very trivial particulars, and those merely 
local, there might be grounds for such a no- 
lion ; but in the main points, I should hope, 
one whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the 
ppellation " Childe," as "Childe Waters," 
u Childe Childers," &c, is used as more con- 
sonant with the old structure of versification 
which I have adopted. The " Good Night," 
in the beginning of the first canto, was sug 
gested by " Lard Maxwell's Good Night," in 
the Border Minstrelsy, edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been 
published on Spanish subjects, there may be 
found some slight coincidence in the first part 
which treats of the Peninsula, but it can onlj 
be casual ; as, with the exception of a tie* 



concluding stanzas, the whole of this poem 
was written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one o« 
our most successful poets, admits of every 
variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following 
observation : — " Not long ago, I began a poem 
in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I 
propose to give full scope to my inclination, 
and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or 
sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humour 
strikes me ; for, if I mistake not, the measure 
which I have adopted admits equally of all 
these kinds of composition." 1 : — Strengthened 
in my opinion by such authority, and by the 
example of some in the highest order of Italian 
poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at 
similar variations in the following composition; 
satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, theij 
failure must be in the execution, rather than 
in the design, sanctioned by the practice oi 
Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 
London, February, 181 a. 



TO IANTHE.» 

Not in those climes where I have late been 

straying, 
Though Beauty long hath there been match- 
less deem'd; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seem'd: 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they 

beam'd— 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee what language 
could they speak ? 



278 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Ah ! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining ! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years, 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow dis- 
appears. 

Young Peri 3 of the West ! — *t is well for me 
My years already doubly number thine; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine; 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall 

bleed, 
Mine sha.l escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even love- 
liest hours decreed. 

Oh ! let that eye, which, wild as the Gazelle's, 4 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly 

sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why 
To one so young my strain I would commend, 
But bid me with my wreath one matchless 
lily blend. 

Such is thy name with this my verse entwined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last: 
My days once number'd, should this homage 

past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou wast, 
Sach is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could 

Friendsnip less require "> 



<£i)itoe l^arolirs pilgrimage. 



CANTO THE FIRST 



Oh, thou ! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly olrtbi 
Muse ! t'orm'd or fabled at the minstrel's will . 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill . 
Yet there I 've wander'd by thy vaunted rill ; 
Yes ! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,* 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plaiu a tale — this lowly lay ol 
mine. 



II. 

Whilome in A'bion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight: 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 

And flaunting wassailers of high and xro 
degree. 



Childe Harold was he hight : — but whence his 

name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame 
And had been glorious in another day : 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd cUy, 
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sup 
Disporting there like any other fly, 
Nor deem'd before his little day was done 
One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell: 
He felt the fulness of satiety : 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Ere 
mite's sad cell. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



979 



For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one, 
And that ioved one, alas! could ne'er he his. 
Ah, happy she ! to 'scape from him whose kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, 
And spoil' d her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd 
to taste. 



And now Childe Harold was sore sick at heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee; 
T is said, at times the sullen tear would start, 
Hut Pride congeal'd the drop within his ee : 
Apa.t he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea; 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost long'd for woe, 
And een for change of scene would seek 
the shades below. 



The Childe departed from his father's hall ; 

It was a vast and venerable pile; 

So old, it seemed only not to fall, 

Yet strength was pillar 'd in each massy aisle. 

Monastic dome ! condemn'd to uses vile ! 

Where Superstition once had made her den 

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and 

smile; [agen, 

And monks might deem their time was come 

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these 

holy men. 

VIII. 

Yet oft-times in his maddest mirthful mood 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe Harold's 

brow. 
As if the memory of some deadly ftud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below : 
But this none knew, nor haply cared to know; 
For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole, 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could 

not control. 



And none did love him — though to hall and 

bower 
He gathcr'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew then flatt'rers of the festal hour; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 



Yea! none did love him — nothislemans lear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs 
might despair. 

x. 

Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did shun; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of steel : 
Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 

Such partings break the heart they fomiJy 
hope to heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands. 
The laughing dames in whom he. did delight, 
Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy 

hands, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed bis youthful appetite; 
His goblets brimm'a with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
"Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, 
And traverse Paynim shores, and pass 

Earth's central line. 6 



The sails were fill'd, and fair the light wimis 

blew, 
As glad to wait him from his native home ; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam : 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and wept, 
And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning 

kept. 



But when the sun was sinking in the sea 
He seized his harp, which he at times could 

string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listening : 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And tuned his farewell in the dim twilight. 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And fleeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his lasi 
" Good Night.' 



280 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



" Adiku, adieu! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue ; 
The Nighuwinds sigh, the breakers roar, 

Ar.d shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Von Sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land — Good Night! 

•A few short hours and He will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth i3 desolate; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall ; 

My dog howls at the gate. 

" Come hither, hither, my little page ! 7 

Why dost thou weep and wail ? 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 

Or tremble at the gale ? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye ; 

Our ship is swift and strong : 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along. 

Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind : 
Yet marvel not, Sir Chikle, that, I 

Am sorrowful in mind ; 8 
For I ha\ e from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone 

But thee — and one above. 

' My father bless'd me fervently, 

Yet did not much complain ; 
'•Jut sorely will my mother sigh 

Till I come back again.' — 
"\Jnough, enough, my little lad ! 

Such tears become thine eye ; 
If I thy guileless bosom had. 

Mine own would not be dry. 

" Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman,9 

Why dost thou look so pale ? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman? 

Or shiver at the gale ?" — 
' Dcem'st thou I tremble for my life ? 

Sir Childe, I 'm not so weak ; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

' My spouse and boys dw r ell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake, 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make ? ' — 



" Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay ; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away. 

" For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wile or paramour ? 
Fresh feres will dry the bright blue eytt 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past 1 do not grieve, 

Nor perils gathering near ; 
My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 

" And now I 'm in the world alone. 

Upon the wide, wide sea: 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands; 
But long ere I come back again 

He 'd tear me where he stands. 

" With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to, 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves ! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves ! 

My native Land — Good Night!" 



On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude, in Biscay's sleepless bay 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anr-a, 
New shores descried make every bosom gay ; 
And Cinlra's mountain greets them on their way 
And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay, 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet. Tew 
rustrcs reap. 



Oh, Christ ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaver hath done for this delicious, and! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on even tree '. 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand ! 
But man would mar them with an impious hand • 
And when the Almighty lifts his fiercest scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress his high com- 
mand, 
With treble vengeance will his hot shafts urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest 
foemen purge. 



J 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



281 



What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold ! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 
0;' mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And 10 the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoln with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick yet loathe the hand that waves the 
sword [sparing lord. 

To save them from the wrath of Gaul's un- 

XVII. 

But whoso entereib within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange ee ; 
For hut and palace show like filthily ; 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; 
Ne personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwash'd ; unhurt. 

xvm. 
Poor, paltry slaves! yet bora 'midst noblest 

scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such men? 
Lo! Cintra's 10 glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah, me ! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates 
Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Ely- 
sium's gates ? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent crown'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy 

steep, [brown 'd, 

The mountain-moss by scorching skies im- 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must 

weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough, 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with variea 

beauty glow. 

xx. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest ye at " Our Lady's house of woe ;" 11 



Where frugal monks their little relics sbjw, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish'd been, and lo! 
Deep in you cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a 
Hell. 



And here and there, as up the crags you spring, 
Mark many rude-carved crosses near the path: 
Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 
These are memorials frail of murderous wrath 1 
For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 
Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin' 

knife, 
Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath , 
And grove and glen with thousand such are rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law se» 

cures not life. 12 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath, 
Are domes where whilome kings did make 

repair ; [breathe 

But now the wild flowers round them only 
Yet ruin'd splendour still is lingering there* 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair: 
There thou too, Vathek ! England's wealthiest 

son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds hatb 

done, [to shun. 

Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont 



Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of pie* 

sure plan. 
Beneath yon mc untain's ever beauteous brow; 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou ! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasaunces on earth supplied ; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentl* 

tide! 



Behold the hall where chiefs were late coa 

vened ! ' :J 
Oh ! dome displeasing unto British eye ! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo ! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly. 



28: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



There sits in parchment robe array 71, and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazond glare names known to chi valry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points, and laughs with 
all his soul. 



Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That t'oifd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them beguiled, 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dash7l to earth the victor plume, 
And Policy regain'd what arms had lost: 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels bloom'. 
Woe to the conqu'ring, not the conquerd host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's 
coast! 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintra ! at thy name ; 
And folks in office at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, foi 

shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim ! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their lame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through 
many a coming year ? 

XXVII. 

So deem 'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains he 

Did iake his way in solitary guise : 

Sweet was the scone, yet soon he thought to 

flee, 
More restles-. than the swallow in the skies : 
Though here awhile he learn'd to moralize, 
For Meditation fix'd at times on him ; 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 
His early youth misspent in maddest whim; 
But as he ga^d on truth nis aching eyes 

grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse ! to horse ! he quits, for ever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his sou : 
Again he rouses from his moping fits, 
But seeks not now the harlot and the bowl. 
Onward he flies, nor fix'd as yet the goal 
Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And og- him many changing scenes must roll 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experience 
sage. 



XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
W r here dwelt of yore the Lusians' luckles» 

queen ; 14 
And church and court did mingle their array. 
And mass and revel were alternate seen 
Lors? lings and freres — ill-sorted fry I ween ! 
But here the Babylonian whore hath built 
A dome, where Haunts she in such gloriou 

sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath spilt, 
And bow the knee to Pomp that hives to 

varnish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic hills, 
(Oh, that such hills upheld a freeborn race!) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyaunce fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pleasant 

place, 
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to 

trace, 
Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
And life, that bloated Ease can never hope 

to share. 

XXXI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede. 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend ; 
Immense horizon-bounded plains succeed! 
Far as the eye discerns, withoulen end, 
Spain's realms appear whereon her shepherd 
tend knows — 

Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 
Now must the pastor's arm his lambs defend : 
For Spain is compass'd by unyielding foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Sub- 
jection's woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms divided 
Or ere the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
Or dark Sierras rise in craggy pride? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, nc river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark and tall. 
Rise like the rocks thatpartHispaniaslanfl 
from Gaul : 

xxxm. 
But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scaree a name distinguisheth the brook 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant sides 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 



CHILDE HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 



283 



That peaceful still 'twixt bitterest foemen flow ; 
For proud each peasant as the noblest duke : 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of 
the low. 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been 

pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among. 
Whilome upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendour drest: 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk 

the strong : 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest. 
Mix'd. on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts 

oppress'd. 

XXXV. 

Oh, lovely Spain ! renown'd, romantic land ! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bore. 
When Cava's traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dved thv mountain streams with Gothic 



gore 



915 



Where are those bloody banners which of yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore ? 
Red gleam'd the cross, and waned the crescent 
pale, [matrons' wail. 

While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish 

XXXVI. 

Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 
Ah ! such, alas ! the hero's amplest late ! 
When granite moulders and when records fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride ! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 

estate, 
See how the mighty shrink into a song ! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and His- 
tory does thee wrong ? 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain : awake ! advance ! 
^o ! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries ; 
Sin wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies. 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's 

roar ! 
In every peal she calls — " Awake! arise !" 
Say. is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Anda- 
lusia's shore? 



xxxvu. 

Hark ! heard you not those .*oofs of dreadfu. 

note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote ; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank beneath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves ? — the fires of death, 
The bale-fires flash on high: — from rock to 

rock [breathe ; 

Each volley tells that thousands cease to 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 

Bed Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel 

the shock. 

XXXIX. 

Lo ! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon ; 
Bestless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet [done; 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds are 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shftie the blood he 
deems most sweet. 



By Heaven ! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no fv ; end, no brother thert) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery, 
Their various arms that glitter in the air ! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from 

their lair, [prey '. 

And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the 

All join the chase, but few the triumph share ; 

The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 

And Havoc scarce for joy can number their 

array. 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine to offer sacrifice : 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on high 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue 

skies ; 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion,Victory! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not me — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, [gain. 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to 

XIII. 
There shall they rot — Ambition's honour'd 
fools I [clay ! 

Yes, Honour decks the turf that wraps theii 
Vain Sophistry ! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their wa« 



284 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



With human hearts — to what? — a dream 

alone. [sway? 

Can despots compass aught that hails their 

Or call with truth one span of earth their own, 

Save tKat wherein at last they crumble bone 

by bone? 



Oh, Albuera, glorious field of grief! 
As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick'dhis steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so hri«f 
A scene where mingling foes should boast and 

bleed! 
Peace to the perish'd! may tbe warrior's meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong ! 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead, 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping 

throng, [transient song. 

And shine in worthless lays, the theme of 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for fame : 
Fame that will scarce re-animate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single 

name. 
In sooth 'twere sad to thwart their noble aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings ! for their country's 

good, [shame; 

And die, that living might have proved her 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic feud, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path 

pursued. 



Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued : 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wished -for prey! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot intrude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces rude. 
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre might yet survive, 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease 
to thrive. 



But all unconscious of the coming doom, 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; 
Strange modes of merriment the hours con- 
sume, [wounds: 
Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 
Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 16 
sounds; 



Here Folly still his votaries inthralls; 

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her midnigb 

rounds : 
Girt with the silent crimes i>f Capitals, 

Still to the last kind Vice clings to the tot- 
t'ring walls. 

XLVII 

Not so the rustic — with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy rye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: [mar. 
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye /ret; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man 
be happy yet! 

XI. VIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion in his lay, 
As whilome he was wont the leagues to cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 
No ! as he speeds, he chants " Viva el Key !"1" 
And checks his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black-eyed 
boy, [adulterate joy. 

And gore-faced Treason sprang from her 

XLIX. 

On yon long, level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets 

rest, [ground ; 

Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 
4nd, scathed by fire, the greensward's darken'd 

vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the 

host, [nest; 

Here the bold peasant storm 'd the dragon's 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were 

won and lost. 



And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue. 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to 

greet- 18 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true: 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poniards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear tht 

cannon's smoke. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



285 



At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load ; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain-howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 
The holster'd steed beneath the shed of thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid 19 , the ever-blazing 
match, 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come : — but he whose nod 
Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 
A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; 
A little moment deigneth to delay : 
Soon will his legions sweep through these their 
way; [world. 

The West must own the Seourger of the 
Ah! Spain! how sad will be thy reckoning- 
day, [unfurl'd, 
When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to 
Hades hurl'd. 

LUX. 

And must they fall? the young, the proud, the 
brave, [reign? 

To swell one bloated Chiefs unwholesome 
No step between submission and a grave? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? 
And doth the Power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? 
Is all that desperate Valour acts in vain? 
Anil Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 

The Veteran's skill, Youth's fire, and Man- 
hood's heart of steel? 

LIT. 
Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of war? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bay'net jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars 
might quake to tread. 

r.v 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal- 
black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in Lady's bower, 
Seen her long locks that foil the painter's power, 



Her fairy form, with more than female grace 
Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 
Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 
Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's 
fearful chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-timed tear. 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post ; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base career; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope 

is lost? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, • 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a batter'd 
wall?20 



Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But forai'd for all the witching arts of love: 
Though thus in arms they emidate her sons 
And in the horrid phalanx dare to move 
T is but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate : 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening prate; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms per- 
chance as great 

I.VIII. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath impress'd 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears hii 

touch: 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: 
Her glance how wildly beautiful ! how much 
Hath Phoebus woo'd in vain to spoil her cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch! [seek? 

Who round the North for paler dames would 

How poor their forms appear! how languid, 

wan. and weak ! 



Match me. ye climes ! which poets love 10 

laud ; 
Match me, ye harams of the land ! where now2l 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that ev'n a cynic must avow ; 
Match me those Houries, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — deign 

to know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
Hisblack-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically 

kind. 



286 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Oh, thou Parnassus ~! whom I now survey, 
Not in the phrensy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow-clad through thy native sky, 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty ! 
What marvel if I thus essay to .sing ? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine Echoes with his string, 
Though from thy heights no more one Muse 
will wave her wing. 



Oft have I dream'd of Thee ! whoss glorious 

name 
Who knows not, knows not man & divinest lore : 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas ! with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee ; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 

In silent joy to think at last I look on Thee! 



Happier in this than mightiest bards have been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it 

not ? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, 
Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melo- 
dious wave. 



Of Uiee hereafter. — Ev'n amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here ; 
Forgot the land, the sons, the maids of Spain ; 
Her fate, to every freeborn bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a tear. 
Now tc my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear ; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle 
vaunt. 

hxiv. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount ! when Greece 

was young, 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir, 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess sung 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal fire, 



Behold a train more fitting to insnire 
The song of love than Andalusia's matila, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire : 
Ah! that to these weie given such peace t li 
shades fher glades. 

As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fl* 



Fair is proud Seville ; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancienl 

days ; 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice ! how soft are thy voluptuous ways ! 
While boyish blood is mantiing, who can 'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze ? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive 
shape. 

LXVI. 

When Paphos fell by Time — accursed Time 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to 

thee — [clime 

The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to rlee 
And fix'dher shrine within these walls of white, 
Though not to one dome eireumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 

A thousand altars rise, for ever blazing 

bright. 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled 

Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns : 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns. 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour 

by turns. 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest ; 
• What hallows it upon this Christian shore ? 
Lo ! it is sacred to a solemn feast : 
Hark ! heard you not the forest monarch's 

roar? [gore 

Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his 

horn ; [more ; 

The throng d arena shakes with shouts foi 

Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly torn. 

Nor shrinks the female eye, nor ev'n anecU 

to mourn. 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



287 



The seventh day this ; the jubilee of man. 
Lou Ion ! right well thou know'st the day of 

prayer : 
Then thv spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse 
ch^ir, [whirl ; 

And humblest gig through sundry suburbs 
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make re- 
pair ; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedes- 
trian churl. 



LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant steed* 
With milk-white crest, gold spur, and lighv 

poised lance, 
Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 
And lowly bending to the lists advance , 
Rich are their scarfs, their chargers i'eatlj 

prance: 
If in the dangerous game they shine to-day. 
The crowd's loud shout and ladies' loi.ijp 

glance, 
Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain thci/ 

toils repay. 



Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 

Others along the safer turnpike fly ; 

Some Richmond-hill ascend, some scud to 

Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades! the :eason why? 23 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids are 

sworn, 
And consecrate the oath 24 with draught, 

and dance till morn. 



All have their fooleries^ -not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark blue sea ! 
Soon a.s the matin bell procluimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary : 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen be ; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare : 
Young, old. high, lew, at once the same 
dhersiun share. 



The lists art oped, the spacious area clear'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated 

round ; 
Long ere the first leud trumpet's note is heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found : 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames abound, 
Skill' d in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound ; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd to 

die, 
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's 

sad archery. 



In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array 'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matador* 
Stands in the centre, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds ; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed 
o'er, [speed 

Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart Ins 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor mor^ 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed- 
Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear ana 
bleed. 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion: lo! the signal falls 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mightt 

brute, 
And, wildly staring, spurns, with sounding foot. 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe": 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, 

to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail ; red rolls his eye's dilat~i 

glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops ; his eye is fix'd : awav, 
Away, thou heedless boy ! prepare the spear • 
Now is thy time, to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad careei 
With well-timed croupe 35 the nimble courser* 

veer ; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson tomtit 

clear : 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his throes ; 
Dart follows dart ; lance, lance ; loud 

bellowings speak his woes. 



288 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Again he comes ; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse ; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force, 
One gallant steed isstretch'd a mangled corse; 
\nother, hideous sight ! nnseam'd appears, 
tl's gory chest unveils life's panting source ; 
though death-struck, still his feeble frame he 
rears ; [harm'd he bears. 

Staggering, but stemming all, his lord un- 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the last, 
Full in the centre stands the bull at bay, 
Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances 

brast, 
And foes disabled in the brutal fray: 
A.nd now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thunder- 
ing way — 
Vain rage ! the mantle quits the conynge hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks 
upon the sand ! 26 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the 

spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline: 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears — on high [eyes — 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as shy, 
Hurl the dark bulk along, scarce seen in 

dashing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 

The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish 

swain. 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet 

the foe, 
Enough, alas! in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence 

life's warm stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

Bat Jealous- has fled : his bars, his bohs, 
His wither'a xtntinel, Duenna sage! 
And all whereat the gor erous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could encage 



Have pass'd to darkness witi: the vanishd 

age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen, 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage,) 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the green, 
While on the gay dance shone Night'* 
lover-loving Queen? 



Oh ! many a time, and oft, had Harold lovea 
Or dream'd he loved, since, rapture is a dream, 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream ; 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings : 
How fair, how young, how soft soe'er beseem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling 
venom flings. 

X.XXXIII. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the 

wise; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E 'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful eyes : 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies ; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb. 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: 
Pleasure's pall'd victim: life-abhorring gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's un- 
resting doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the throng ; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate : 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, the 

song; 
But who mav smile that sinks beneath hit 

fate ? * 
Nought that he saw nis saaness could abate 
Yet once he struggled 'gainst the demon's sway 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pourd forth this unpremeditated lay, 

To charms as fair as those that soothed hi* 

happiei diiv. 



TO INEZ. 

1. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow ; 

Alas ! I cannot smile again : 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep ic vain 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



289 



2. 

And dost thou ask, what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 

A pang, ev'u thou must fail to soothe ? 



t Is not iove, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honours lost, 
TUa' bids me loathe mv present state, 
And ily from all I prized the most: 



it is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet, or hear, or see : 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 

5. 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 



What Exile from himself can flee? 

To zones, though more and more remote 
Still, still pursues, where-e'er I be, 

The blight of life — the demon Thought. 



Some native blood was seen thy streets to dye: 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud ;27 
Here all were noble, save Nobility; 

None hugg'd a conqueror's chain, save fallci 
Chivalry ! 

lxxxvi. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her fat- '. 
They fight for freedom who were never free ; 
A Kmgless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains flee 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery ; 
Fond of a land which gave them nought bin 

life, 
Pride points the path that leads to liberty; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife"; 
"War, war is stdl the cry, " War even to tHt 

knife !"28 

LXXXVII. 

Ye, who would more of Spain and Spaniards 

know, 
Go, read whate'er is writ of bloodiest strife : 
Whate'er keen Vengeance urged on foreign fo- 
Can act, is acting there against man's life : 
From flashing scimitar to secret knife, 
War mouldeth there each weapon to his need- 
So may he guard the sister and the wife, 
So may he make each curst oppressor bit e.d, 
So may such foes deserve the most remor# 
less deed ! 



Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake ; 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake ! 

8. 
Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 

With many a retrospection curst; 
And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I 've known the worst. 



What is that worst? Nay do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear : 

Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's there. 

LXXXV. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz ! yea, a long adieu ! 

Who may forget how, well thy walls have 

stood ? 
When all were changing thou alone werttruc, 
First to be free and last to be subdued : 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 



LXXXVITI. 

Flows there a tear of pity for the dead? 
Look o'er the ravage of the reeking plain: 
Look on the hands with female slaughter red; 
Then to the dogs resign the unburied slain, 
Then to the vulture let each corse remain; 
Albeit unworthy of the prey-bird's maw, 
Let their bleaeh'd bones, and blood's unbleach 

ing stain, 
Long mark the battle-field with hideous awe 
Thus only may our sons conceive the scenes 
we saw. 1 

LXXXIX. 

Nor yet alas! the dreadful work is done; 
Fresh legions pour adown the Pyrenees: 
It deepens still, the work is scarce begun. 
Nor mortal eye the distant end foresees. 
Fall'n nations gaze on Spain; if freed, she. 

frees 
More than her fell Pizarros once enchain'd: 
Strange retribution! now Columbia's ease 
Repairs the wrongs that Quito's sous sustain'd 
While o'er the parent clime prowls Murde* 
unrestrxin'd. 



20 



290 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Not all the blood at Talavera shed, 

Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight, 

Not Albuera lavish of the dead, 

Have won for Spain her well asserted right 

When shall her Olive-Branch be free from 

blight:-' [toil? 

When shall she breathe her from the blushing 

How many a doubtful day shall sink in night, 

Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil, 

And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of 

the soil! 



^nd thou, my friend! 29 — since unavailing woe 
bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 

strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
fride might forbid e'en Friendship to complain : 
iut thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
iy all forgotten, save the lonely breast , 
and mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
wTnle Glory crowns so many a meaner crest ! 
What hadst thou done to sink so peacefully 

to rest? 

xcn. 

ffh known the earliest, and esteem'd the most ! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so dear 1 
Though to my hopeless days for ever lost, 
ji dreams deny me not to see thee here! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourn'd and mourner lie united in 
repose. 



Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage: 
V ft who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rj»ymetli now may scribble moe. 
Is this too much? stem Critic! say net so: 
?atience ! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
\n other lands, where he was doom'd to go: 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous 
hands were quell'd. 



<£J)ifoe ^arottTs plumage, 



CANTO THE SECOND. 



Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but thou 

alas! 
Didst never yet one mortal song inspire — 
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire, 3 ** 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and ages slow, 
Is the dread sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 

That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'c* 

breasts bestow. 



Ancient of days ! august Athena! where, 
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in 

soid? [that were 

Gone — glimmering through the dream of things 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 
They won, and pass'd away — is this the whole? 
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! 
The warrior's weapon and the sophist's stole 
Are sought in vain, and oer each mouldering 

tower, [shade of power. 

Dim with the mist of years, gray flit* the 



Son of the morning, rise ! approach you heie 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn: 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their 
turn: [creeds 

Twas Jove's — 'tis Mahomet's — and other 
Will rise with other years, till man shall leam 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds?. 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope 
is built on reeds. 



Bound to the earth, he lifts his eye to heaven- 
Is 't not enough unhappy thing! to know 
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou woidd'st be again, and 50, 
Thouknow'st not,reck'stnotto what region, se 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies? 
Still wit thou dream on future joy and woo? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it. flies: 
That little urn saith more than thousaa 
homilies. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



291 



Or burst the vanish' d Hero's lofty mound; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps : 31 
He fell, and falling nations mourn' d around; 
But now not one of saddening thousands weeps, 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Whers demi-gods appear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon skull from out the scatter' d heaps: 
s that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why ev'n the worm at last disdains her 
shatter'd cell ! 



Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: 
Ves, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul : 
jsehold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit 
ind Passion's host, that never brook' d control: 
fan all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 



fVell didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son ! 
' All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot 

shun? 
Each hath his pang, but feeble sufferers groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fate proclaimelh best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever wel- 
come rest. 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who maae our mortal labours light ! 
I'o hear each voice we fear'd to hear no more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight, 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who 
taught the right ! 

IX. 

There, thou ! — whose love and life together fled, 
Save left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee 

dead, 
When busy memory flashes on my brain ? 
Weh — I will dream that we may meet again, 



And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 

If aught of young Reme.ubrance then remain, 

Be as it may Futurity's behest, 

For me *t were bliss enough to know thy 
spirit blest! 

x. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base ; 
Here, son of Saturn ! was thy fav'rite throne: 3 * 
Mightiest of many such! Hence let me truce 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be : nor ev'n can Fancy's eye 
Restore what Time hath labour'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek 
carols by. 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd. loth to flee 
The latest relic of her ancient reign ; 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was ha 
Blush. Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England ! I joy no child he was of thine : 
Thy free-born men should spare what once wa. 

free ; 
Fet they could violate each saddening shrine 
And bear these altars o'er the long-reluctan. 
brine. 33 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time hath 

spared : 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand pre- 
pared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to guard. 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 
And never knew, till then, the weight Kit 
Despot's cha'ns. 

XIII. 

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom 

wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 
The ocean queen, the Iree Britannia, bears 
Th? last poor plunder from a bleeding land : 
Yes, she, whose gen'rous aid her name endears, 
Tore down those remnants with a harpy's hand, 
Which envious F,ld forebore, and tyrants lei's 

to stand. 

u 2 



292 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Where was thine ,Egis, Pallas ! that appall'd 

Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way ? 

Where Peieus' son? whom Hell in vain en- 
thralls, 

His shade from Hades upon that dread day 

Bursting to light in terrible array ! 

What ! could not Pluto spare the chief once 
more, 

To scare a second robber from his prey? 

Idly he wander'd on the Stygian shore, 

Nor now preserved the walls he loved to 
shield before. 



Cold is the heart, fair Greece ! that looks on 
thee, 

Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; 

Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 

Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines re- 
moved 

By British hands, which it had best behoved 

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 

Curst be the hour when from their isle they 
roved, 

And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatch'dthy shrinking Gods to northern 
climes abhorr'd! 



But where is Harold ? shall I then forget 
To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 
Little reck'd he of all that men regret; 
No loved-onenowin feign'd lament could rave; 
No friend the parting hand extended gave, 
Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes : 
Hard is his heart whom charms may not 

enslave ; 
But Harold felt not as in other times, 

And left without a sigh the land of war and 
crimes. 



Re that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full lair sight; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, 
The white sail set, the gallant frigate tight ; 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the right, 
The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their 

flight, 
' ♦•» dullest sailer wearing bravely now, 
fro gaily curl the waves before each dashing 
pxov* . 



And oh, the little warlike world within ! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy ; 
The hoarse command, the busy humming din 
When, at a word, the tops are maun'd on high 
Hark, to the Boatswain's call, the cheering cry 
While through the seaman's hand the tackl 

glides ; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by 
trains his shrill pipe as good or iil betides, 
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin 

guides. 



White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant walks . 
Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone chieftain, wrfo majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all — not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever bail* 
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely swerv? 
From law, however stern, which tends thej 
strength to nerve 



Blow! swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling gale 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening ray 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail. 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way 
Ah ! grievance sore, and listless dull delay. 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest breeze 
What leagues are lost, before the dawn of < lay 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs 
like these ! 



The moon is up ; by Heaven a lovely eve ! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves ex- 
pand ; [lieve : 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and mahN be- 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love ; 4 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure leatly move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were 
free to rove. 



Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy shoie; 
Europe and Afric on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky Mooi ' 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze • 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



293 



How softly on the Spanish shore she plays, 
Disclosing rock, and .slope, and forest brown, 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning 

pnase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 

From mountain clitf to coast descending 
sombre down 

XXIII. 

T is night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an end: 
The heart, lone mourner of its battled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a 

friend. [bend, 

Who with the weight of years would wish to 
When Youth itself survives young Love and 

Joy ? 
Alas ! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy ! 
Ah ! happy years ! once more who would 

not be a boy ? 

XXIV. 

Thus bending o*er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schtmes of Hope and 

Pride," 
And flies unconscious o'ereach backward year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart 

divest. 

XXV. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell, 
Anc 1 mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; 
This is not solitude ; 'tis but to hold 

Converse with Nature's charms, and view 
her stores unroll'd. 

XXVI. 

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of 

men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can 

bless ; 
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress! 
None that, with kindred consciousness endued, 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and sued; 
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! 



XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may b< 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Whichlooks o'er wavesso blue, skiesso 
That he who there at such an hour hath been 
Will wistful linger on that hallow'd spot; 
Then slowly tear him from the 'witching scene. 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost 
forgot. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the 

tack, [wind 

And each well known caprice of wave and 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Coop'd in their winged sea-girt citadel 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind. 
As breezes rise and fall and billows swell, 
Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! an<? 

all is well. 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles, 3 * 
The sister tenants of the middle deep ; 
Therefor the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to 

weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride: 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder tide ; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen 

doubly sigh'd. 



Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: 
P>ut trust not this; too easy youth, beware! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous throne, 
And thou may'st. find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence ! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be 

thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 
Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang 

for mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that, lady's eye 
Helook'd.and met its beam without a thought 
Save Admiration glancing harmless bv : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not fai rcmjte, 



294 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the hoy his bosom sought: 
Since now he vainly urged him ,o adore, 
Well deem d the little God his ancient sway 
was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, 

their law ; 

All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen claims : 

And much she marvell'd that a youth so raw 

Nor felt, nor feign'd at least, the oft-told 

flames, [rarely anger dames. 

Which, though sometimes they frown, yet 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd in silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art. 35 
And spread itssnares licentious far and wide; 3 ® 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as aught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied; 
A.nd had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining 
crew. 



Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast, 
Who thinks that wai- ton thing is won by sighs; 
What careth she for hearts when once 

possess' d? 
Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes ; 
But not too humbly, or she will despise 
Thee and thy suit, though told in moving 

tropes ; 
Disguise ev'n tenderness, if thou art wise ; 
Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion 

crowns thy hopes. 



'Tis an old lesson; Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best, deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honour lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion ! these ! 
If, kindly cruel, early Hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 

Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to 
please. 



xxxvr. 

Away! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountaiu-path to treni 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were ared, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought; 
If that corrupted thing could ever suut be 
taught 



Dear Nature is the kindest mother still, 
Though alway changing, in her aspect milt[ ; 
From her - bare bosom let me take my fill 
Her never-wean'd, though not her favour'd 

child. 
Oh ! she is fairest in her features wild, 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her path: 
To me by day or night she ever smiled, 
Though I have mark d her when none other 
hath, [best in wrath 

And sought her more and more, and loved ha 

XXXVIII. 

Land of Albania ! where Iskander rose, 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise 
And he his namesake, whose oft-barfled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprize 
Land of Albania ! let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each 
city's ken. 

XXXIX. 

Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren 

spot, 
Where sad Penelope o't-look'd the wave; 37 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave 
Dark Sappho ! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal lire ? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave ? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 

That only Heaven to which Earth's children 

may aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar;* 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
Oft did he mark the scenes of vanish'd war, 



OHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



295 



Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar; 39 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 
But loathed the bravo's trade, and laugh'd 
at martial wight. 



But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont. 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his 
pallid front. 

XLII. 

Morn dawns ; and with it stern Albania's hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedevv'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise ; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer : 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the 
closing year. 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu ; 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view : 
-lis breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants 

were few ; 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to meet : 
The scene was savage, but the scene was new ; 
This made tfc-a easeless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back Keen winter's blast, and welcomed 
summer's heat. 



Here the red cross, for still the cross is here, 
Though sadly scofFd at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper'd priesthood dear; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition ! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss ! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate 
thy dross ? 



Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king 40 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring : 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies rose ! 4 ' 
Now, like the hands that rear'd them, wither- 
ing; 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes ! 
God ! was thy globe ordain'd for such to 
win and lose ? 



From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 

Ev'n to the centre of Illyria's vales, 

Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount 

sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic tales ; 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales 
Are rarely seen ; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not; loved Parnassus fail* 
Though classic ground and consecrated mosj 
To match some spots that lurk within thj 
lowering coast. 

XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake, 42 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onwards did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief 43 , whose dread com- 
mand 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold: 
Yet here and there some daring mountain-band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky hok 
Hurl their deriance far, nor yield, unless to 
gold. 44 

XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza 45 ! from thy shady brow, 
Thou small, but favour'd spot of holy ground ! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms ar 

found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain, all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonise the whole : 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed sataract doth roll 
Between those hangirg rocks, that shocl* 

yet please the soul. 



Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted hill 
Which, were it not for many a mountain n.gi 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity. 



296 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



The convent's white walls glisten fair on high : 
Here dwells the caloyer** 6 , nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer ; the passer by 
Is welcome still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, it* he delight kind Nature's 
sheen to see. 



Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees ; 
"i lere winds of gentlest wing will fan his breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze: 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease : 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the 
eve away. 



Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic amphitheatre, 47 
Chimaera's alps extend from left to right: 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir ; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the 

mountain-fir 
Nodding above; behold black Acheron! 48 
Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Plulo ! if this be hell I look upon, 

Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade 

shall seek for none. 



Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view ; 
Unseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Veil'd by the screen of hills : here men are few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot ; 
Bat, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth; and, pensive o'er his scatter'd flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote 49 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short- 
lived shock. 



h ! where, Dodona ! is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's 

shrine ? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? 
Cease, fool ! the fate of gods may well be thine: 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak ? 
"When nations, tongues, and worlds must 

sink beneath the stroke ' 



Epulis' bounds recede, and mouri ains fail ; 
Tired of up-gazing still, the wearied eye 
Ileposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever .Spring yclad in grassy die : 
Ev'n on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the long expanse 
And woods along the banks are waving high. 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight"! 
solemn trance. 



The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit, 50 
And Laos wide and fierce came roaring by ; 51 
The shades of wonted night were gathering 

yet, 
When, down the steep banks winding warily 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream; and drawing 

nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 

Swelling the breeze that sigh'd along the 

lengthening glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarehing gate 
Survey 'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court, 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and santons 

wait ; 
Within, a palace, and without, a fort: 

Here men of every clime appear to make 
resort. 

LVII. 

Richly caparison'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a warlike store, 
Circled the wide-extending court below ; 
Above, strange groups adorn'd the corridore ; 
And oft-times through the area's echoing door, 
Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed 

away: [Moor 

The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announcer' 

the close of day. 



The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see : 
• he crimson-scarfed men of Maccdon: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



2D7 



The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive ; the lively, supple Greek; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated sou ; 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns fco speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek, 



Aremix'd conspicuous : some recline in groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play, are 

found , 
Here the Albanian proudly treads the ground; 
Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to 

prate ; [sound, 

Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn 
The Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no god but God ! — to prayer — 

lo ! God is great !" & 



T ust at this season Xiamazani's fast 53 
Through the long day its penance did maintain : 
But when the lingering twilight hour was past, 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again : 
N T ow all was bustle, and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board 

within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem d made in vain, 
Jut from the chambers came the mingling din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out 

and in. 



Here woman's voice is never heard: apart, 
Ann scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to move. 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove: 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
\nd joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Biest cares ! all other feelings far above ! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she bears, 
"Who never quits the breast, no meaner pas- 
sion shares. 



ui marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the centre rose, 
Whose bubVing did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ar.i reclined, a man of war and woes: 
fet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 
While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 

The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him 
with disgrace. 



LXIII. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beam 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth: 
Love conquers age — so Had/, hatn averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of ruth 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's tooth 
Blood follows blood, and, through their mot 
tal span, [blood began.* 

In bloodier acts conclude those who will, 

LXIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye 
The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury, 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice retrea 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise : 
And were it humbler it in sooth were sweet-, 
But Peace abhorreth artificial joys, 

And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zesi 
of both destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mat are. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 
Who can so well the toil of war endure? 
Their native fastnesses not more secure 
Than they in doubtfid time of troublous need 
Their wrath how deadly! but their friendship 

sure, 
When Gratitude or Valout bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chiei 

may lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's 
tower, 

Thronging to war in splendour and success; 

And after view'd them, when, within theii 
power, 

Himself awhile the victim of distress; 

That saddening hour when bad men hotlici 
press : 

But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 

"When less barbarians would have cheer d him 
less, 

And fellow-countrymen have stoed aloof •*> — • 
In aught that tries the heart how few with- 
stand the proof ! 

LXV1I. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove his 

bark 
Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 
"When all around was desn'iate and dark 
To laud was perilous, lo sojourn more; 



298 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Vet for awhile the mariners forbore, 

Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk: 

At length they ventured forth, though doubting 

sore [Turk 

That those who loathe alike the Frank and 

Might once again renew their ancient 

butcher-work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch'd the welcome 

hand, 
Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous 

swamp, 
Kinder than polish'd slaves though not so 

bland, [ments damp, 

And piled the hearth, and wrung their gar- 
And fill'd the, bowl, and trimm'd the cheerful 

lamp, [had: 

And spread their fare; though homely, all they 

Suchcondui t bears Philanthropy's rare stamp— 

To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 

Doth lesson happier men, and shames at 

least the bad. 



It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain-land, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and brand; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labours tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 

And from his further bank ^Etolia's wolds 
espied. 



For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was pasi> 
The native revels of the troop began ; 
Each Palikar 57 his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd toman. 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long daunced 
the kirtled clan. 58 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood, 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 
In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, glee , 
And, as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles stream'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half sang, 
half scream 'd: — 



Tambourgi! Tambourgi 5 ^! thy larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of war 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliote! 

2. 
Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wile, 
flock, [the rock 

And descends to the plain like the stream fron 



Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live ! 
Let those guns so unerring such vengean* 

forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 



Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at. rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's breast, 
As winds come whispering lightly from the 

west, 
Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene: — 
Here Harold was received a welcome guest; 
Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 
For many a joy could he from Night's soft 

presence glean. 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly 

blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling fast, 56 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 



Macedonia sends forth her invincible race: 
For a time they abandon the cave and the charts, 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, 

before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

5. 
Then the Pirates of Parga that dwell by the 
waves, [slaves, 

And teach the pale Franks what it is to be 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

6. 

I ask not the pleasures that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must buy; 
Shall win the young bride with her long flowing 

hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall tew 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



299 



r love the fair face of the maid in her youth, 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall 
sooth; [toned lyre, 

Let her bring from her chamber the many- 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

8. 
Remember the moment when Previsa fell ,60 
The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquerors' 

yell ; [shared, 

The roofs thai we fired, and the plunder we 
The wealthy we slaughter'd, the lovely we 

spared. 

9. 
I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
He neither must know who would serve the 

Vizier: [ne'er saw 

Since the days of our prophet the Crescent 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

10. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-hair'«i 61 Giaours 6 - view his 

horse-tail 63 with dread [the banks, 

When his Delhis 6 * come dashing in blood o'er 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite 

ranks ' 

11. 

Selictar 6 ^! unsheathe then our chiefs scimitar: 
rambourgi ! thy larum gives promise of war. 
Ve mountains, that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more ! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece ! sad relic of departed worth ! 
Immortal, though no more ; though fallen, 

great! 
Who now shall lead thyscatter'd children forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate ? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh i who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee 
from the tomb ? 



LXXIV. 

Spirit of Freedom ! when on Phyle's brow 66 
Thou sat'st with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forbode the dismal hour which 

now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain ? 
Not tbirtv tyrants now eaforoe the chain. 



But every carle can lord it o'or thy land ; 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish 
hand, [deed, unmann*d. 

From birth till death enslaved ; in word, in 



In all save form alone, how changed ! and who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each eye 
Who but would deem their aosoms burn'd 

anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty ! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage. 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 

Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's 

mournful page. 



Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 

Who would be free themselves must strike tht' 

blow? [wrought.' 

By their right arms the conquest must bi 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? no ! 
True, they may lay your proud despoilers low 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots ! triumph o'er your foe 
Greece ! change thy lords, thy state is stil 

the same ; [of shume 

Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thine yeat 



The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again mai 

wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; 67 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's 68 tomb of all its pious spoil, 
May wind their path of blood along the West ; 
But ne'er w r ill freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years o» 

endless toil. 

LXXVIIl. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal sin, 
By daily abstinence and nightly prayer ; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear 
Some days of joyaunce are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasaunce each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival 



300 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than 

thine. 
Oh Stauiboul! once the empress of their reign? 
Though turbans now pollute .Sophia's shrine. 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain: 
(Vlas! her woes will still pervade my strain!) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her 

throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign, 
Nor oft I ve seen such sight, nor heard such 

song, [along. 

Aswoc'd the eye, andthrill'dtheBosphorus 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore, 
Ot't Music changed, but never ceased her tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 
The Queen of tides on high consenting shone, 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the 

wave, 
'T was, as if darting from her heavenly throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seeni'd to light the 
banks they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the land, 
Ne thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid tye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may withstand, 
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still: 
Oh Love ! young Love ! bound in thy rosy 

band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 

These hours, and only these, redeem Life's 

years of ill ! 

LXXXII. 

But, midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret pain, 
Even through the closest searment half be- 

tray'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern dis- 
dain: 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
And long to change the robe of revel for the 
shroud ! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot still can boast: 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all ae 
lost, 



Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword: 
Ah! Greece! they love thee least who ow* 

thee most; [c-cira 

Their birth, their blood, and that sublime to 

Of hero sires, who shame thy now dig'i 

nerate horde ! 

LXXXIV. 

When riseth Lacedremon's hardihood. 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again. 
When Athens' children are with hearts endued 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to men 
Then may st thou be restored ; but not till then 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state , 
An hour may lay it in the dust : and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendour renovate, 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time 
and Fate? 



And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men ! art thou 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow, 69 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favourite now ; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to thy surface bow 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough : 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 

So perish all in turn, save well-recorded 
Worth ; 

LXXX VI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave P 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna's cliff, and gleams along the wave; 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave, 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 
While strangers only not regardless pass, 
Lingering like me, perchance, to gaze, and 
sigh "Alas!" 

LXXXVII. 

i r et are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild ; 
Sweet are thv groves, and verdant are thy 

fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honied wealth Hyniettus yields • 
There the blithebee his fragrant fortress'builds 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain-air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mendeli's marbles glare ; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still id 

fair 



CIIfLDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



301 



LXXX1 III. 

Wbeie'er we tread 't is taunted, holy ground; 
No earth ol thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The seems our earliest dreams have dwelt upon : 
Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and 

wold [gone. 

Defies the power which crush'd thy temples 

Age shakes Athena s tower, but spares gray 

Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the same ; 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless fame 
The Battle-field, where Persia's vietim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word ; 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the right, the conquerors 
career, 

xc. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow ; 
The nV.y Greek, his red pursuing spear, 
Mountains above, Earth's, Oeean'splain below; 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth here? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow' d ground, 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger ! 
spurns around. 



Yet to the remnants of thy splendour past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, throng; 
Long shall the voyager, with th' Ionian blast, 
Hail the bright clime of baUie and of song; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a shore; 
Boast of the aged ! lesson of the young ! 
Which sagei venerate and bards adore, 

As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful 
lore. 

XCII. 

The parted bosom clings t3 wonted home, 
if aught that's kindred cheer the welcome 

" hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let. him roam, 
And gaze: complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome lain! fl' social mirth; 



But he whom Sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi s sacred side. 
Or ga/.ing o'er the plains where Greek anu 
Persian died. 

XCIII. 

Let such approach this consecra:ed land, 
And pass in peace along the magic waste- 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how deiaced ! 
Not lor such purpose were these altars placed 
Revere the remnants nations once revered: 
So may our country's name be undisgraced 
So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was 
rear'd, 
By every honest joy of love and life endear'd i 



for thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hast soothed thine idlesse with inglorious lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days : 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor pariia, 

praise ; 
Since cold eaehkinderheartthatmight approve 
And none are lelt to please when none a '4 

left to love. 

xcv. 

Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely one 
Whom youth and youth's afl'ections bound ti. 

me; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being:'' thou hast ceased to be ! 
Nor staid to welcome here thy wanderer home 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no ir*ire 

shall see — 
Would they had never been, or were to come 
Would he had ne'er return' d to find fresj 

cause to roam ! 

xcvi. 
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! 
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
But Time shall tea^r thy shadow from me last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death '. 

thou hast; [friend: 

The parent, friend, and now the more thafl 

Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 

And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 

Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had f- 

to lend. 



302 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XCVII. 

Ther must 1 plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak ; 
Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer 
To feign the pleasure or conceai the pique; 
miles form the channel of a future tear, 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled 
sneer. 

xcvni. 
What is the worst of woes that wait on age ? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 
&nd be alone on earth, as I am now. 
before the Chastener humbly let me bow, 
l)'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy'd : 
iloll on, vain days ! full reckless may ye flow, 
ifnce Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoy' d, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years 
alloy' d. 



GT&tfoe f^aroftTs pilgrimage. 



And the rent canvass flutte? mg strew ;he gal* 
Still must I on ; for I am as a weed, 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sai" 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the .empest i 
breath prevail. 



In my youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind 
Again I seize the theme, then but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards : in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying yeais 
Plod the last sands of life, — where not a 
flower appeals. 



Since my young days of passion — -joy, or pain 
Perchance my heart and harp have lost a string 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Vet. though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungratefo* 
theme. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



Ts thy face like thy mother's, my fair child ' 
Ada. ! sole daughter of my house and heart ? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes they 

smiled, 
And then we parted, — not as now we part, 
but with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices : I depart, 
Whither I know not ; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve 
r glad mine eye. 

II. 

Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! 
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 
That knows his rider. Welcome to their roar ! 
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! 
Though the strained mast should quiver as a 
reed, 



He, who grown aged in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, 
£0 that no wonder waits him ; nor below 
C^n love, or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Out to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of dlent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet 

rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soid'u 

haunted cell. 



'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 
The life we image, even as I do now. 
What am I? Nothing: but not so ait thou, 
Soui of my thought! with whom I traverse 

earth, 
Invisible but gazing, as I glow 
Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy birth 
And feeling still with thee in my crush'c' 

feelings' dearth 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



303 



Yet must I think less wildly : — T have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to tame, 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'T is too late ! 
Yet am I changed; though still enough the 

same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing 

Fate. 

VIII. 

Something too much of this: — but now 'tis 

past, 
And the spei^ closes with its silent seal. 
_,ong absent Harold re-appears at last; 
If e of the breast which fain no more would feel, 
JTrung with the wounds which kill not, but 

ne'er heal; 
Jet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
31 soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
lire from the mind as vigour from the limb; 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near 

the brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff d too quickly, and he found 
The dregs were wormwood ; but he fill'd again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual ; but in vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn w r ith 

pain, [keen, 

Which pined although it spoke not, and grew 

Entering with every step he took through 

many a scene. 

x. 

Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind ; 
And he, as one, might midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to find 
Fit speculation ; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-w r orks of God and 
Nature's hand. 



Who can contemplate Fame through clouds 

unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor climb ? 
Harold, once more within the vortex, roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's 

fond prime. 

XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with Man ; with whom he heid 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 
queil'd, [pell'd 

In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncom- 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against, whom his own rebell'd ; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without man 
kind. 

XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him werf 

friends ; 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ■ 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends, 
He had the passiou and the power to roam ; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam. 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tome 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft for- 
sake [the lakr. 

For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams rn 



uike the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, 
fill he had peopled them with beings blight 
As their own beams ; and earth, and eaitb- 

born jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight 
He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which wooi 
us to its brink. 



But whc can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek 

To wear it? who can curiously behold 

Hie smoothness and the sheen of Vautv's 

cheek. 
Nor feel the oeait cswj never all grow old? 



But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome. 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded sold would through his bo 
som eat. 



304 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Self -exiled Harok' wanders forth again, 
With 1 aught of hope left, but with less of 

gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a sinilin^ncaS assume, 
Which, though 't were wild, — as on the plun- 

der'd wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking 

deck, — [to cheek. 

Did yet inspire a cheer, which he lbrebore 

XVII. 

Stop! — for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that, red rain hath made the harvest 

grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
Thou first, and last of fields ! king-making 
Victory ? 

XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
How in an hour the power which gave annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too ! 
In " pride of place"" 1 here last the eagle dew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations through; 
Ambition's life and labours all were vain; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's 
broken chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gatd may champ the bit 
And foam in fetters; — but is Earth more free? 
Did nations combat to make 0?je submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What! shall reviving Thraldom again be 
The patch' d up idol of enlighten'd days ? 
Shall we, who struck- the Lion down, shall we 
Pay the Wo.f -tomage ? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones ? No ; prove 
before ye praise ! 



If not, o'er one fallen despot boast no more ! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot 

tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her \j.ieyards; in vain years 



Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions : all that most endear', 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Hamiodius"2 drew on Athens' tv 
rant lord. 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er lair women and brave 

men ; 
A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again. 
And all went merry as a marriage-bell ;" :! 
But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like 
a rising knell ! 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it ? — No ; 't was but the wind. 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance ! let joy be unconihied ; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure 

meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet — 
But, hark! — that heavy sound breaks in one* 

more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm ! arm ! it is — it is — the cannon's ope* 

ing roar ! 

XXIII 

Within a window'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did he;.\ 
That sound the first amid.-t the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 

ear ; [near, 

And when they smiled because he deem'd it 
His heart more truly knew that peal too well 
Which stretch'd his father on a bloody bier,' -1 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could 

quell : [fighting, felt 

He rush'd into the field, and, foremost 

XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, 
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress. 
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 
Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness ; 
And there were sudden partings, such as press 
The life, from out young hearts, and choking 

sighs Lg'''' S: < 

Which ne'er might be repeated ; who could 
1 1' ever more should meet those mutual eyes. 
Since upon night so sweet such awuii hdotb 

couid rise ! 



CHILD*: HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



305 



And there was mounting in hot haste: the 
steed, [car, 

The mustering squadron, and the clattering 
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war ; 
And the deep thunderpeal on peal afar; 
And near, the heat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng' d the citizens with I;rror dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — " The foe ! 
They come! they come !" 



XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than 

mine ; 
Yet one I would select *rom that proud throng 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow song, 
And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thiim'd files along 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest 

lower'd, 
They reach'd no nobler breast than thiiK 

young gallant Howard ! 



\nd wild and high the " Cameron's gathering" 

rose ' 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 

foes: — 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills, 
Savage and shrill ! But with the breath which 

mis 

Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's " 5 fame rings in each 
clansman's ears ! 



And Ardennes'6 waves above them her green 

leaves. 
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grif" es, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas ! '*■ 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 

And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 



Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently-stern array ! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when 

rent 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 

pent, 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red 

burial blent : 



There have been tears and breaking hearts foi 

thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give, 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green tre*: 
Which living waves where thou didst cease V> 

live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those shi 

could not bring.' 7 

XXXI. 

I tuT*d to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
AnCoae as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his wn kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetulness were mercy for their sake ; 
The A "changel's trump, not Glory's, must 
^wake [of Fame 

Those \\ bom they thirst for ; though the sound 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
^o honpur'd but assumes a stronger, bitterer 
o clarn. 

-) XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length: and, smiling, 

mourn : 
The tree will wither long before it fall : 
The hull drives on, though mast and sail be 

torn ; 
The roof-tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 
In massy hoariness; the mind wall 
Stands when its wind-worn battlements are 

gone ; 
The bars survive the captive they enthral ; 
The day drags through thoughstormskeepo-.il 

the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenlj 

live on : 

* 21 



306 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies ; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks; 
And thus the heart will Ao which not forsakes, 
Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 
rid bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow aches, 
et withers on till all without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are 
untold. 

XXXIV. 

Th*s is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick ro#t 
Which feeds these deadly branches ; for it were 
As nothing did we die ; but Life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
like to the apples 78 on tha Dead Sea's shore, 
W\ ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment, and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — sav would 
he name threescore? 

XXXV. 

The Psalmist number'd out the years of man . 
They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleeting 

span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! ' 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lipsshall echo them, and 'say — 
' Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day ! " 
And this" is much, and all which will not 
pass away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of me , 
Whose spirit antithetically mixt 
One moment of the mightiest, and agf-in 
On little objects with like firmness fixftJ 
Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt, 
Thy throne had still been thine, or never been ! 
For daring made thy rise as fall ! thouseek'st 
Even now to re-assume the imperial mien, 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer 
of the scene ! 

XXXVH. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou . 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than 

now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 



The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert. 

Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er tho» 

didst assert. 



XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low, 
Bating with nations, flying from the field; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool 

now 
Mr"? than thy meanest soldier taught to yield 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, re 

build, 
Br* govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
.Look through thine own, nor curb the lust o/ 

war, [loitiest star. 

f- T or learn that tempted Fate will leave the 

XXXIX. 

Ye- well thy soul hath brook' d the turning tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy 
Whei> the whole host of hatred stood hard by, 
To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast 

smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye ; — 
When Fortune lied her spoil'd and favourite 

child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon 

hf u piled. 



Sager than in thy fortunes ; for in them 
v.aibition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn, which could contr-an 
Men and their thoughts ; 't was wise to feel, 

not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to o * 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow , 
'T is but a worthless world to win or lose ', 
So hath it proved tc thee, and all such W 

who choose. 

XXX. 

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd lo binve (i*i 
shock; [thy throne, 

But men's thoughts were the 2*<\ <? wiw h pavte j 
Their admiration Jay best weapon sbnne : 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



307 



The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside" thy purple had heen thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; 

For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide 
a den. 

XLTI. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 

And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 

And motion of the soul which will not dwell 

hi its own narrow being, but aspire 

Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 

A.nd. but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 

Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, 

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XLIII. 

This makes the madmen who have made men 

mad 
By their contagion : Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they fool ; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to 

shine or rule : 

XI.IV. 
Their breath is agitation, and their life 
& storm whereon they ride, to sink at last, 
Knd yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 
With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriousfy . 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops, shall find 
The lottiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 

snow ; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Muse look down on the hate of those below. 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those 

summits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these ! true Wisdom's world will be 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal Nature ! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine ? 



There Harold gazes on a work divine, 

A blending of all beauties ; streams and del s. 

Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, cornfield, mountain, 

vine, 
And chiefless castles breathing stern farewells 
From gray but leafy walls, when; Ruin 
greenly dwells. 

XLVII. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and 

proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below ; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust, ert 

now, [futi re blow. 

And the bleak battlements shall bear no 

X I. VIII. 

Beneath these battlements, within tho:-e walls. 
Power dwelt amidsther passions; in proud state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 
W T hat want these outlaws'^ conquerors should 

have? [great! 

But History's purchased page to call thei| 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 

Their hopes were not less warm, their souii 

were full as brave. 

XL1X. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess urjrc corded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous pride 
Tnrough all the mail of iron hearts would glide 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew oa 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief won 
Saw the discolour'd Rhine beneath its ruin 
run. 

U 
But Thou, exulting and abounding river ! 
Making thy w r aves a blessing as they flow 
Through banks whose beauty would endm* 

for ever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to se« 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to Know- 
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such 
to me, [should Lethe be 

Even now what wants thy stream? -that it 
x 2 



308 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering 

ranks ; 
Their very graves are gone, and what are they ? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yesterday, 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny ray ; 
Buto'ertheblacken'd memory's blighting dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping 

as they seem. 

XJI. 
Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensibly to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
J n glens which might have made even exile 

dear : 
Though on his brow were graven lines austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the place 
Of feelings fierier far but less severe, 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with 

transient trace. 



Nor was all love shut from him, though his days 
Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 
It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 
On such as smile upon us ; the heart must 
Leap kindly back to kindness, though disgust 
Hath wean ; d it from all worldlings : thus he felt, 
For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust 
In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom 
dwelt. 

LIV. 

/fid he had learn'd to love,— I know not why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of mood,— 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Eve* ; .u its earliest nurture, what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know ; 
But thus it was ; and though in solitude 
Small power thenipp'd affections have to grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had 
ceased to glow. 

LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal ; and, though 

unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 



Still undivided, and cemented more 
By peril, dreaded most in female 1n r es ; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore 
Well to that heart might his these absert 
greetings pour ! 

1. 
The castled crag of Drachenfels 80 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
AVhose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see 
With double joy wert thou with me 

2 
And peasant girls, with deep blue eyes, 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 
Above the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ; 
But one thing want these banks of Rhine — 
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

3. 
I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such; 
For I have cherish'd them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here, 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, 
And ofi'er'd irom my heart to thine ! 

4 
The river nobly foams and flows, 
The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round : 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here ; 
Nor could on earth a spot be lb and 
To nature and to me so clear, 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! 

LVI. 
By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 
Crowning the summit of the verdant mound . 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



30 ( J 



Our enemy's, — but let not that forbid 
Honour to Marceau ! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough soldier's 

lid, 
Lamenting and yat envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled 

to resume. 

LVII. 

lief, brave, and glorious was his young 
career, — [foes ; 

His mourners were two hosts, his friends and 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose ; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of those, 
The few in number, who had not o'er&tept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men 
o'er him wept. 81 

LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein 8 -, with her shatter'd wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Tet shows of what she was, when shell and 

ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light : 
& tower of victory! from whence the flight 
Df baffled foes was watch 'd along the plain : 
lint Peace destroy'd what War could never 

blight, [rain — 

And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's 

On which the iron shower for years had 

pour'd in vain. 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long delightc 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray ; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
V\ here Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
ild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the 
year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 

There can be no farewell to scene like thine, 

Thf.- mind is colour'd by thy every hue ; 

And if reluctantly the eyes resign 

Their cherish'd gaze upon tiiee, lovely Rhine ! 

T is with the thankful glance of parting praise ; 

More mighty spots may rise — more glaring 

shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 

The brilliant, fair, and soft, — the glories o. 

old days, 



LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful b oom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom. 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls between 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets been 
In mockery of man's art ; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here ex*«nd to all. 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though En* 
pires near them fall. 



But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalp*, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow • 
All that expands the spirit, jet appals, 
Gather around these summits, as to sho«v 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, ye. leavt 
vain man below. 



But ere these matchless heights I dare tr scan, 
There is a spot should not bepass'd in vain, — 
Morat ! the proud, the patriot field ! where 

man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquer' d on tha* 

plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeath'd his tombles* nost 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument; the Stygiar coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 

wandering ghost. 83 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Canmes carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand 
They were true Glory's stainless victor.es, 
Won by the unambitious heart and baud 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 
All unbought champions in no princely canst 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption; they no ltuid 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making kings' rights divine, by some bra 
conic clause 



By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 
A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days: 
'T is the last remnant of the wreck of yeam 
And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaztf 



310 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Of one to stone converted by amaze, 
Yet still consciousness ; and there it stands 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicuni 84 , hath strew'd her sub- 
let lands. 



Of oivr infection, till too late and long 
We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
'Midst a contentious world, striving whet 
none are strong. 



LXVI. 

nd there — oh ! sweet and sacred be the 

name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to heaven ; her heart, beneath a 

claim [grave. 

Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's 
Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would 

crave 
The life she lived in ; but the judge was just, 
3uid then she died on him she could not save. 
Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 
And held within their urn one mind, one 

heart, one dust. 85 

LXVI I. 

But these are deeds which should not pass 
away, [earth 

^nd names that must not wither, though the 
Forgets her empires with a just decay, 
The enslavers and- the enslaved, their death 

and birth ; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality !ook forth 
In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow, 86 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 



Take Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountain view 
Th°. stillness of their aspect in each trace 
*[ts clear depth yields of their far height and 

hue: 
There is too much of man here, to look through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold ; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of 

old, 
Ere mingling with the herdhadpenn'dme in 

their fold. 

LXTX. 

fo fly from, need not be to hate, mankind' 
411 are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
isor is it discontent to keep the mind 
t)eep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In the hot throng, where we become the spoil 



There, in a moment, we may plunge our yt ;rs 
In i'atal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears. 
And colour things to come with hues of Night-, 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness : on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 

Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd 
ne'er shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake ? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone, 87 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 
A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 

Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd b> 
inflict or bear ? 



I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture : I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A .ink reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Ciass'd among creatures, when the soul cai 

flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving ph.ia 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in 

vain. 

LXXIII. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife. 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion : which I feel to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous, as the 

blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing. 
Spurning the clay cold bonds which rosuxi 

our being cling. 



CHILDE HAROLD S PILGRIMAGE. 



31] 



LXXIV. 

And when, at length, the mind shall be all free 
From what, it hates in this degraded form, 
Heft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the rly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
Ami dust is as it should be, shall 1 not 
Feel all 1 see, less dazzling, but more warm ? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each spot? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the 
immortal lot? 

LXXV. 

A>e not the mountains, waves, and skies, a 

part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them ? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion ? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turn'd below, 
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts 
which dare not glow ? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme ; and I return 
I'o that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One, whose dust was once all fire, 
& native of the land where I respire 
f he clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious ; 't was a foolish quest, 
The which to gain and keep, he sacrificed 
all rest. 

LXXVII. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Itousseau> 
The apostle of affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched ; yet 

he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
~) er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly line 
7f words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they past 
The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feel- 
ingly and fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning ; with ethereal iiame 
Kindled be was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamour 'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the iove of living dame. 



Nor of the dead who lise upon our dreams. 
But of ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though 
it seems. 

LXXiX 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, (his 
Invested her with all that's wild and swee*.; 
This hallow'd, too, the memorable kiss H8 
Which every morn his iever'd lip would greet; 
From hers, who but with friendship his would 

meet; [breast 

But to that gentle touch, through brain and 

Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring heat; 

In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest 

Than vulgar minds may be with all thej 

seek possest. 

LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self-sought foes 
Or friends by him self-banish 'd ; for his mine. 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange an* 

blind. [know 

But he was phrensied, — wherefore, who ina* 
Since cause might be which skill could nevei 

find ; 
But he was phrensied by disease or woe 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears : 

reasoning show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him cam? 
As from the Pythian's mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 
Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no more 
Did he not this for France? which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers, 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows 
o'ersrown fears? 



They made themselves a fearful monument! 
The'wreck of old opinions — things which grew, 
Breathed from the birth of time: the veil they 

rent, 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour 

re-fill'd, (.will'd. 

As heretofore, because ambition iras self 



312 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



LXXXIII. 

But this will not endure, nor be endured ! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made it 

felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigour, sternly have they dealt 
On one another ; pity ceased to melt 
"With her once natural charities. But they, 
Who in oppression's darkness caved had dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish'd with the day ; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook 

their prey ? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar ? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to wear 
That which disfigures it; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been van- 

quish'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission : in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years; none need 

despair: 
]t came, it cometh, and will come, — the power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 

slower. 

LXXXV. 

Jlear, placid Leman ! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wild world I dwelt in, is a thing 
Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To wait me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have 
been so moved. 

LXXXV1. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the 

shore, 
Of flowers vet fresh with childhood ; on the ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night 

carol more ; 

LXXXVII. 

Jle is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill ; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 
Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill 



But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of hei 
hues. 



Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven 
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate 
Of men and empires, — 'tis to be Jorgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be great, 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state, 
And claim a kindred with you ; lor ye are 
A beauty, and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar, 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 
themselves a star. 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not in 

sleep, 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too deep: — 
All heaven and earth are still : From the hig'c 

host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain-coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 

Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 



Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 

In solitude, where we are least alone ; 

A truth, which through our being then doth 

melt. 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes 

known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty; — 'twould 

disarm [to harm 

The spectre Death, had he substantial powe 

xci. 
Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus Uik< 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 
The Spirit, in whose honour shrines are weal 
Upreard of human hands. Come, and con 

pare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With Nature's realms of worship, earth and an 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe th 

pray'r ! 



CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



313 



The sky is changed ! — and such a change ! Oh 
night, [strong, 

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along, 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among 
Leaps the live thunder ! Not from one lone 

cloud, 
But every mountain now hath found a tongue, 
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her 
aloud ! 

xcni. 
And this is in the night: — Most glorious night! 
Thou wert not sent for slumber ! let me be 
k sharer in thy fierce and far delight, — 
£ portion of the tempest and of thee! 89 
Jfbw the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
jnd the big rain comes dancing to the earth ! 
kid now again 't is black, — and now, the glee 
Jf the loud hills shakes with its mountain-mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earth- 
quake's birth. 



Kow, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 
between [parted 

Heights which appear as lovers who have 
Jn hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted; [thwarted, 
Though in their souls, which thus each other 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then 

departed : — 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters, — wax* within themselves 
to wage. 



Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, lightnings' 
ye! [sou) 

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
To make these felt and feeling, well may be 
Things that have made me watchful ; the far 

roll 
Of your departing voices, is the knoll 
Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 
But where of ye, oh tempests ! is the goal? 
Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find, at length, like eagles, some 
high nest? 



Could I embody and unbosom now 
That which is most within me, — could I wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong or 

weak-, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe — into one 

word, [speak j 

And that one word were Lightning, I would 
But as it is, I live and die unheard 

With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it 

as a sword. 



The morn is up again, the dewy mom, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek aL 1 

bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb, — 
And glowing into day : we niciy resume 
The march of our existence : and thus I. 
Still on thy shores, fairLeman! may find room 
And food for meditation, nor pass by 

Much, that may give us pause, if ponder'd 
fittingly. 



ow, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft 

his way, 
The mightiest of the storms hath ta'en his stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their play, 
And flingtheir thunder-bolts from hand to hand, 
Flashiug and cast around: of all the band, 
The brightest ♦hi'ough these parted hills hath 

fork'd 
His lightnings, — as if he did understand, 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever 

therein lurk'd. 



Clarens! sweet Clarens ! birthplace of deep 
Love ! [thought, 

Thine air is the young breath of passionate 
Thy trees take root in Love ; the snows above 
The very Glaciers have his colours caught, 
And sun-set into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly, the rocks, 
The permanent crags, tell here of Love, who 

sought 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the scul with hop" thai 
woos. then mocks. 



314 



(JH1LDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 



Clarens ! by heavenly feet thy paths are trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains ; where the 

god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 
In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown 
His soft and summer breath/whose tender power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most 
desolate hour. 

CI. 

All things arehereof him; from the black pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the 

shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs ; and the wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where 

it stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude, 

en. 

a populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form' d and uiany-colour'd things, 
W ho worship him with notes more sweet than 

words, 
And innocently open their glad wings 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
And fail of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one 

mighty end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn that 

lore. 
And make his heart a spirit ; he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far 

from those, 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die : 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity ! 

civ. 

T was not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections ; but he found 
It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings ; 't was the ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound. 



Ana Ualiowa it with loveliness : t is lone, 

And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 

And sense, and sight of sweetness ; here tin 

Rhone [rear'd a throne 

Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have 

:v. 

Lausanne ! and Femey ! ye have been tl a 

abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath' d a name : 9 * 
Mortals, who sought and found, bydangeroia 

roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame : 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, and 

the flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the while 
On man and man's research could deign do 

more tnan smile. 



The one was fire and fickleness, a child, 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or wild, — 
Historian, bard, philosopher, combined ; 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents : But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as t'r* 

wind. 
Blew where it listed, laying all things prone,-* 
Now to o'erthrow a fool, and now to shak» 

a throne. 

cvu. 
The other, deep and slow, exhausting thought 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge severe, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer ; 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew 

from fear, 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready Hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquent] 

well. 

CVIII. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid ; 
It is not. ours to judge, — far less condemn ; 
The hour must come when such things shah 

be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber, on one pillow, — in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie decay 'd ; 
And when it shall revive, as is our tnist, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what if 

just 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



315 



But let me qui; man's works, again to read 
His Maker's, spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feea, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The elouas above me to the white Alps tend, 
And 1 must pierce them, and survey whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers 

of air. 

ex. 
Italia ! too, Italia ! looking on thee 
Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 
bince the fierce Carthaginian almost won thee 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages ;' 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ; 

still, 
The fount at which the panting mind assuages 
,*ier thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's 

imperial hill. 

CXI. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to ltel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem 
We are not what we should be, — and to steel 
The heart against it3elf ; and to conceal, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or aught, — 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal,— 
Which is the tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul: — No matter, — it is 
taught. 

cxn. 
And for these words, thus woven into song, 
Jt may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The colouring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, lor a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile, 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot ; 

I stood and stand alone, — remember'd or 

forgot.. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me; 
I have not flatter' d its rank breath, nor bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, — nor cried aloud 
In worship of an echo; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I stood 
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were mt their thoughts, and 
still could, 

II id I not riled my mind, which thus itseL 

ptibdued 



cxiv. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world me, — 
But let us part fair iocs; 1 do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there may 
be [not deceive, 

Words which are things, — hopes which will 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing: I would also deem 
O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve^ 
That two, or one, are almost what they seem. — 

That goodness is no name, and happiness 
no dream. 

cxv. 
My daughter! with thy name this song begun— 
My daughter! with thy name thus much shaft 

end — 
I see thee not, — I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee ; thou art the Iriend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend- 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold. 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend 
And reach into thy heart, — when mine is cold,-- 

A token and a tone, even from thy father) 

mould - CXVI. 

To aid thy mind's developement, — to watch 

Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 

Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 

Knowledge of objects, — wonders yet to thee 

To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 

And print on thy soft cheek a parent's kiss,-* 

This, it should seem, was not reserved for me 

Yet this was in my nature : — as it is, 

I know not what is there, yet something like 

to this. 

cxvu. 

Yet,though dull Hate as duty should be taught 

I know that thou wilt love me ; though my name 

Should be shut from thee, as a spell still fraught 

"With desolation, — and a broken claim : 

Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere 

the same, 
I know that thou wilt love me ; though to drain 
My blood from out thy being were an aim. 
And an attainment. — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou would'st love me, still that mo* 

than life retain 

cxvni. 
The child of love, — though born in bitterness 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, — and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee, — but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd,and thy hope far higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers ! O'er the sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I wait such blessing upon thee. 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou might'st hare 

been to me ' 



3Bon $itan. 



" Difficile est proprie communia dicere."— Ho*. 
" T"5n*t thou thinkj "because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more Cakes and Ale?— Ye», 
T Saint Anne, and Ginger shall be hot i' the mouth, tool"— Shakspeare, Ttvslfth Night, or 
Whit You Will. 



DEDICATION.! 



T is poetry — at least by his assertion, 

And may appear so when the dog-star rnges 
And he who understands it would be able 
To add a story to the Tower of Babel. 



3ob Southey! You 're a poet — Poet-laureate, 
And representative of all the race. 

Although 'tis true that you turn'd out a Tory at 
Last, — yours has lately been a common 
case, — 

And now, my Epic Renegade ! what are ye at. 
With all the Lakers, in and out of place? 

& nest of tuneful persons, to my eye 

Ajike " four and twenty Blackbirds in a pye ; 



" Which pye being open'd they began to sing 
(This old song and new simile holds good), 

"A dainty dish to set before the King," 

Or Regent, who admires such kind of food;— 

And Coleridge, too, has lately taken wing, 
But like a hawk encumber' d with his hood,— 

Explaining metaphysics to the nation — 

I wish he would explain his Explanation. 



You — Gentlemen! by dint of long seclusion 
From better company, have kept your own 

At Keswick, and, through still continued fusion 
Of one another's minds, at last have grown 

To deem as a most logical conclusion, 
That Poesy has wreaths for you alone : 

There is a narrowness in such a notion, 

Which makes me wish you'd change youi 
lakes for ocean. 



I would not imitate the petty thought, 
Nor coin my self-love to so base a vice, 

For all the glory your conversion brought, 
Since gold alone should not have been its 
price. [wrought? 

You have your salary; was't for that yon 
And Wordsworth has his place in the Excise. 

You 're shabby fellows — true — but poets still, 

And duly seated on the immortal hill. 



you, Bob ! are rather insolent, you know, 
At being disappointed in your wish 
o supersede all warblers here below, 
And be the only Blackbird in the dish ; 
nd then you overstrain yourself, or so, 
And tumble downward "like the flying fish 
Gasping on deck, because you soar too high 

Bob, 
And fall, for lack of moisture quite a-dry, Bob ! 



Your bays may hide the baldness of your 
brows — [go — 

Perhaps some virtuous blushes : — let them 
To you I envy neither fruit nor boughs- — 

And for the fame you would .engross below 
The field is universal, and allows 

Scope to all such as feel the inherent glow 
Scott, Rogers, Campbell, Moore, and Crabbe. 

will try 
'Gainst you tiie question with posterity. 



And Wordsworth, in a rather long " Excursion" 
(I think the quarto holds five hundred pages), 

Has given a sample from the vasty version 
Of his new system to perplex the sages ; 



For me, who, wanderingwithpedestrian Muses 
Contend not with you on the -winged steed 

I wish your fate may yield ye^when she chooses 
The fame you envy, and the skill you need 



DON JUAN. 



317 



And recollect a poet nothing loses 

In giving to his brethren their full meed 
Df merit, and complaint of present days 
Is not ihe certain path to future praise. 



Nor even a sprightly blunder** spark can blazt 
From that Ixion grindst.te's ceaseless toil, 
That turns and turns to give ihe world a notion 
Of endless torments and perpetual motion. 



_!e that reserves his laurels for posterity 
("Who does not often claim the bright rever 
sion) 

Has generally no great crop to spare it, he 
Being only injured by his own assertion: 

And although here and there some gloriousrarity 
Arise like Titan from the sea's immersion, 

The major part of such appellants go 

To — God knows where — for no one else can 
know. 



If, fallen in evil days on evil tongues, 
Milton appeal'd to the Avenger, Time, 

If Time, the Avenger, execrates his wrongs, 
And makes the word "Miltonic" mean 
"sublime," 

He deign'd not to belie his soul in songs, 
Nor turn his very talent to a crime ; 

He did not loathe the Sire to laud the Son, 

Bat closed the tyrant-hater he begun. 



Think'st thou, could he — the blind Old Man — 
arise [more 

Like Samuel from the grave, to freeze once 
The blood of monarchs with his prophecies, 

Or be alive again — again all hoar 
With time and trials, and those helpless eyes, 

And heartless daughters — worn — and pale — 
and poor; 
Would he adore a sultan ? he obey 
The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh? 

XII. 

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant ! 

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Pyrin's gore, 
And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, 

Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister shore, 
The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, 

With just enough of talent, and no more, 
To lengthen fetters by another fix'd 
And offer poison long already mix u. 



A bungler even in its disgusting trade, 

And botching, patching, leaving still behind 

Something of which its masters are afraid. 
States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be con 
fined, 

Conspiracy or Congress to be made — 
Cobbling at manacles for all mankind — 

A tinkering slave-maker, whomendsold chains, 

With God and man's abhorrence for its gains 



If we may judge of mattei by the mind, 

Emasculated to the marrow It 
Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind 

Deeming the chain itweai seven men may nt 
Eutropius of its many masters, — blind 

To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit 
Fearless — because no feeling dwells in ice, 
Its very courage stagnates to a vice. 



Where shall I turn me not to view its bonds, 
For I will never feel them ; — Italy ! 

Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds 
Beneath the lie this State-thing breather 
o'er thee — [wounds 

Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet greei) 
Have voices — tongues to cry aloud for me 

Europe has slaves — allies — kings — armies still. 

And Southey lives to sing them very ill. 

XVII. 

Meantime — Sir Laureate — I proceed to dedi- 
cate, 

In honest simple verse, this song to you. 
And, if in flattering strains I do not predicate. 

T is that I still retain my " buff and blue ;. "* 
My politics as yet are all to educate : 

Apostasy 's so fashionable, too, [culean ; 
To keep one veed "s a task grown quite Her 
Is it not so, M Tory, ultra-Julian? 3 

Veni e, Sopt. 16, 181b, 



An orator of such set trash of phrase 

Ineffably — legitimately vile, 
That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise. 

Nor foes — all nations — condescend to 
wnile. — 



318 DON JUA1N. 


Bon gjunn. 


v. 
Brave men wereliving before the Agamemnon 




And since, exceeding valorous and sage, 




A good deal like him too, though quite th« 


CANTO THE FIRST. 


same none ; 




But then they shone not on the poet's pa^e 




And so have been forgotten : — I condemn none, 


I. 


But can't find any in the present age 


Fit for my poem (ihat is, for my new one); 


[ want a hero: an uncommon want, 


So, as I said, I '11 take my friend Don Juan. 


When every year and month semis forth a 


new one, 




Till, alter cloying the gazettes with cant, 


VI. 


The age discovers he is not the true one; 


Most epic poets plunge " in medias res " 


Dl" such as these I should not care to vaunt, 4 


(Horace makes this the heroic turnpike road), 


I '11 therefore take our ancient friend Don 


And then your hero tells, whene'er you please, 


Juan — 


What went before — by way of episode, 


We all have seen him, in the pantomime, 


While seated after dinner at his ease, 


Sent to the devil somewhat ere his time. 


BesSde his mistress in some soft abode, 




Palace, or garden, paradise, or cavern, 


ii. 


Which serves the happy couple for a tavern. 


Vernon 5 , the butcher Cumberland 6 , W r olfe 7 , 




Hawked 


VII. 


^rince Ferdinand 9 , Granhy 10 , Burgoyne 11 , 


That is the usual method, but not mine — 



KeppellS, Howel3, 

"Evil and good, have had their tithe of talk, 

And fiU'd their sign-posts then, like Welles- 

ley now ; [stalk, 

Each in their turn, like Banquo's monarchs 

Followers of fame," nine farrow" of that sow: 

France, too, had Buonaparte and Dumourier 

Recorded in the Moniteur and Courier. 



Barnave !4 ,Brissot.'5 Condorcet 16 ,Mirabeau 17 , 
PetioniS, CiuotzW, Danton 2 <>, Marat 21 , La 
Fayette 22 , 

Were French, and famous people, as we know; 
And there were others, scarce forgotten yet, 

Joubert 23 , IT'oche 24 , Mareeau 25 , Lannes 26 , 
Desaix 27 . Moreau, 28 
With many of the military set, 

Exceedingly remarkable at times, 

but not at all adapted to my rhymes. 



Nelson was once Britannia's god of war, 
And still should be so, but the tide is turn'd ; 

There's no more to be said of Trafalgar, 
'T is with our hero quietly inurn'd ; 

Because the army's grown more popular, 
At which the naval people are concern'd ; 

Besides, the prince is ail for the land- service, 

Forgetting Duncai., Nelson ; Howe and Jervis- 



My way is to begin with the beginning ; 
The regularity of my design 

Forbids all wandering as the worst of sin. 
ning, 
And therefore I shall open with a line 

(Although it cost me half an hour in spin 
ning) 
Narrating somewhat of Don Juan's father, 
And also of his mother, if you'd rather. 



in Seville was he born, a pleasant city. 

Famous for oranges and women — he 29 
Who has not seen it will be much to pity, 

So says the proverb — and I quite agree; 
Of all the Spanish towns is none more pretty, 

Cadiz perhaps — but that you soon may 
see ; — 
Don Juan's parents lived beside the river, 
A noble stream, and call'd the Guadalquivir 



His father's name was Jose — Don, of course, 
A true Hidalgo, free from every stain 

Of Moor or Hebrew blood, he traced his source 
Through the most Gothic gentlemen of Spain; 

A better cavalier ne'er mounted horse, 
Or, being mounted, e'er got down again, 

Than Jose, who begot our hero, who 

BeL'ot — but that's to 2ome Well, to a new. 



DON JUAN. 



319 



His mother was a learned lady, famed 

For every branch of every science known — 

In every Christiar language ever named, 
With virtues equal!' d by her wit alone 

She made the cleverest people quite ashamed, 
And even the good with inward envy groan, 

Finding themselves so very much exceeded 

Ju their own way by all the things that she 
did. 

XI. 

Her memory was a mine : she knew by heart 
All Calderon and greater part of Lope, 

80 that if any actor miss'd his part 

She could have served him for the prompter's 
copy ; 

For her Feinagle's were an useless art, 30 
And he himself obliged to shut up shop— he 

Could never make a memory so fine as 

That which adorn'd the brain of Donna Inez. 



Her favourite science was the mathematical, 
Her noblest virtue was her magnanimity, 
Herwit(she sometimes tried at wit) wasAttic all, 
Her serious sayings darken'd to sublimity ; 
In short, in all things she was fairly what I 
call 
A prodigy — her morning dress was dimity, 
Her evening silk, or, in the summer, muslin, 
And other stud's, with which I won't stay 
puzzling. 

XIII. 

She knew the Latin — that is, "the Lord's 
prayer," 
And Greek — the alphabet — I 'm nearly sure ; 
She read some French romances here and there, 
Although her mode of speaking was not pure ; 
For native Spanish she had no great care, 
At least her conversation was obscure ; 
Her thoughts were theorems, her words a pro- 
blem, ['em. 
s if she deem'd that mystery would ennoble 



She liked the English and the Hebrew tongue, 
And said there was analogy between 'em ; 

She proved it somehow out of sacred song, 
But I must leave the proofs to those who 've 
seen 'em, 

But this I heard her say, and can't be wrong, 
And all may think which way their judg- 
ments lean 'em, [' I am,' 

'? T is strange — the Hebrew noun which means 

The English always use to govern d — u." 



Some women use their tongues— she look'd » 

lecture, 

Each eye a sermon, and her brow a homily 
An all-in-all sufficient self-director, 

Like the lamented late Sir SamuelRomill v,3 
The Law's expounder, and the State's corrector 

Whose suicide was almost an anomaly — 
One sad example more, that "All is vanity," 
(The jury brought their verdict in " Insanity! ') 

XVI. 

In short, she was a walking calculation, 
Miss Edgeworth's novels stepping from their 
covers, 
Or Mrs. Trimmer's books on education, 
Or " Coelebs' Wife " set out in quest Oi 
lovers, 
Morality's prim personification, 
^ In which not Envy's self a flaw discovers; 
To others' share let " female errors fall," 
For she had not even one — the worst of all. 



Oh ! she was perfect* past all parallel — 
Of any modern female saint's comparison ; 

So far above the cunning powers of hell. 
Her guardian angel had gi"en up his gar 
rison ; 

Even her minutest motions went as well 
As those of the best time-piece made by 
Ham son : 

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her, 

Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar ! 

XVIII. 

Perfect she was, but as perfection is 
Insipid in this naughty world of ours, 

Where our first parents never learn'd to kiss 
Till they were exiled from their earlie* 
bowers, 

Where all was peace, and innocence, and bliss, 
(I wonder how they got through the twelve 
hours), 

Don Jose like a lineal son of Eve, 

Went plucking various fruit without her leave 

XIX. 

He was a mortal of the careless kind, 

W T ith no great love for learning, or the 
learn'd, 

Who chose to go where'er he had a mind, 
And never dream'd his lady was concern'd- 

The world, as usual, wickedly inclined 
To see a kingdom or a house o'erturn'd, 

Whisper 'd he had a mistress, some said two, 

But for domestic quarrels one will do. 



320 



DON JUAN. 



Now Donna Inez had, with all her merit, 
A great opinion of her own good qualities ; 

Neglect, indeed, requires a saint to bear it, 
And such, indeed, she was in her moralities; 

Put then she had a devil of a spirit. 

And sometimes mix'd up fancies with reali- 
ties, 

And let few opportunities escape 

Of getting her liege lord into a scrape. 

XXI. 

This was an easy matter with a man 

Oft in the wrong, and never on his guard ; 
And even the wisest, do the best they can, 

Have moments, hours, and days, so unpre- 
pared, [fan;" 
That you might "brain themAvith their lady's 

And sometimes ladies hit exceeding hard, 
And fans turn into falchions in fair hands, 
And why and wherefore no one understands 

XXII. 
T is pity learned virgins ever wed 

Withpersons of no sort of education, 
Or, gentlemen, who, though well born and bred, 

Grow tired of scientific conversation- 
I don't choose to say much upon this head, 

I 'm a plain man, and in a single station, 
But — Oh ! ye lords of ladies intellectual, 
Inform us truly, have they not hen-peck'd you 
all? 

xxm. 
Don Jose and his lady quarrell'd — why, 

Not any of the many could divine, 
Though several thousand people chose to try, 

T was surely no concern of theirs nor mine ; 
I loathe that low vice — curiosity; 

Bat if there's any thing in which I shine, 
^ is in arranging all my friends' affairs, 
Not having, of my own, domestic cares. 

XXIV. 

And so I interfered, and with the best 

Intentions, but their treatment was not kind; 

I think the foolish people were possess'd, 
For neither of them could I ever find, 

Although their porter" afterwards confess 'd — 
But that 's no matter, and the worst'sbehind. 

For little Juan o'er me threw, down stairs, 

A pail of housemaid's water unawares. 



A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing, 

And mischief-making monkey from hisbirth; 
His parents ne'er agreed except in doting 
(' Upon the most uuquiet imp 0» «arth; 



Instead of quarrelling, had they been but botk 

in [ford 

Their senses, they 'd have sent young mastei 

To school, or had him soundly whipp'd at home 

To teach him manners for the time to come. 

XXVI. 

Don Jose and the Donna Inez led 

For some time an unhappy sort of life, 

Wishing each other, not divorced, but dead; 
They lived respectably as man and wife, 

Their conduct was exceedingly well-bred, 
And gave no outward signs of inward strife, 

Until at length the smother'd fire broke out. 

And put the business past all kind of doubt. 

XXVII. 

For Inez call'd some druggists, and physicians 
And tried to prove her loving lord was mad 

But as he had some lucid intermissions, 
She next decided he was only bad; 

Yet when they ask'd her for her d-epositions, 
No sort of explanation could be had, 

Save that her duty both to man and God 

Required this conduct — which seem'd ver 
odd. 

XXVIII. 

She kept a journal, where his faults were noteC 
And open'deertaintrunks of books and letters. 

All which might, if occasion served, be queued. 
And then she had all Seville lor abettors, 

Besides her good old grandmother (who dotedj. 
The hearers of her case became repeaters, 

Then advocates, inquisitors, and judges, 

Some for amusement, others lor old grudges. 

XXIX. 

And then this best ana meekest woman bore 
With such serenity her husband's woes, 

Just as the Spartan ladies did of yore, 

Who saw their spouses kill'd, and nobly chos» 

Never to say a word about them more — 
Calmly she heard each calumny that rose, 

And saw his agonies with such sublimity, 

That all the world exclaim'd, " What magna- 
nimity ! " 

XXX. 

No doubt this patience, when the world is 
damning us, 

Is philosophic in our former friends: 
'T is also pleasant to be deem'd magnanimous. 

The more so in obtaining our own ends ; 
And what the lawyeis call a "malus animus 

Conduct like this by no means compreh« is 
Revenge in person 's certainly no virtue. ( 
But then is not my fault, if others hurt you. 



DON JUAN. 



321 



XXXI. 

And if our quarrels should rip up old stories. 
And help them with a lie or two additional, 

I'm not to blame, as you well know — no more 
is 
Any one else — they were become traditional ; 

Besides, their resurrection aids our glories 
By contrast, which is what we just were 
wishing all: 

And science profits by this resurrection — 

Dead scandals form goodsubjects for dissection 

XXXII. 

Their friends had tried at reconciliation, 
Then their relations,who made matters worse. 

('T were hard to tell upon a like occasion 
To whom it may be best to have recourse — 

I can't say much lor friend or yet relation): 
The lawyers did their utmost for divorce, 

But scarce a fee was paid on either side 

Before, unluckily, Don Jose died. 

XXXIII. 

He died: and most unluckily, because. 

According to all hints I could collect 
From counsel learned in those kind of laws, 

(Although their talk 'a obscure and circum- 
spect) 
His death contrived to spoil a charming cause; 

A thousand pities also with respect 
To public feeling, which on this occasion 
Was manifested in a great sensation. 

XXXIV. 
But ah '. he died ! and buried with him lay 

The public feeling and the lawyers' fees: 
His house was sold, his servants sent away, 

A Jew took one of his two mistresses, 
A priest the other — at least so they say : 

I ask'd the doctors alter his disease — 
He died of the slow fever call'd the tertian, 
And left his widow to her own aversion. 

XXXV. 

Yet Jose was an honourable man, 

That I must say, who knew him very well ; 
Therefore his frailties I '11 no further scan, 

Indeed there were not many more to tell: 
And' if his passions now and then outran 

Discretion, and were not so peaceable 
As N uma's (who was also named Pompilius), 
He had been ill brought up, and was born 
bilious. 

XXXVI. 

Whate'er might be his worthlessness or worth, 
Poor fellow ! he had many things to wound 
him. 

L< . s own — since it can do no good on earth-T- 
it wasa trying moment that which lound him 

22 



Standing alone beside his desolate hearth. 
Where all his household gods lay shiver c 
rcund him. 
No choir e was left his feelings or his pride, 
Save death or Doctors' Commons— so he dieu 

XXXVII. 

Dying intestate, Juan was sole heir 

To a chancery suit, and messuages, and lands, 

Which, with a .onf? minority and care, 
Promised to turn out well in proper ha;ids 

Inez became sole guardian, which was fair, 
And answer'd but to nature's just demands ; 

An only son left with an only mother 

Is brought up much more wisely than another. 

XXXVIII. 

Sagest of women, even of widows, she 
, Kesol ved that Juan should be quite a paragon, 

And worthy of the noblest pedigree . 

(Hissire wasof Castile, hisdam from Aragon.) 

Then for accomplishments of chivalry, 

In case our lord the king should go to wa» 
again, 

He learn'd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery 

And how to scale a fortress — or a nunnery. 

XXXIX. 

But that which Donna Inez most desired. 
And saw into herself each day h-fore all 

The learned tutors whom for him she hhd 
Was, that his breeding should be strictly 
moral : 

Much into all his studies she inquired. 

And so they were submitted first to her, all. 

Aits, sciences, no branch was made a mystery 

To Juan's eyes, excepting natural history. 



The languages, especially the dead, 

The sciences, and most of all the abstruse, 

The arts, at least, all such as could be said 
To be the most remote from common use. 

In all these he was much and deeply read ; 
But not a page of any thing that's loose, 

Or hints continuation oi the species, 

Was ever suffer'd, lest he should grow vi 



His classic studies made a little puzzle. 

Because of filthy loves of gods and goddesses, 
Who in the earlier ages raised a bust'ie, 

But never put on pantaloons or bodices ; 
His reverend tutors had at times a tussle. 

And for their iEneids, Iliads, andOdyssey\ 
Were forced to make an odd sort of apology. 
For Donna Inez dreaded the Mytnology 



322 



DON JUAN. 



XLII. 

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, 
Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, 

Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, 

I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, 

Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn 
Where the sublime soars forth on wings 
more ample; [one 

But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid 

Beginning with " Foraiosum Pastor Corydon." 

xliii. 

Lucretius' irreligion is too strong 

For early stomachs, to prove wholesome food ; 
I can t help thinking Juvenal was wrong, 

Although no doubt his real intent was good, 
For speaking out so plainly in his song, 

So much indeed as to be downright rude ; 
And then what proper person can be partial 
To all those nauseous epigrams of Martial? 



Juan was taught from out the best edition, 
Expurgated by learned men, who place, 

Judiciously, from out the schoolboy's vision, 
The grosser parts ; but, fearful to deface 

Too much their modest bard by this omission, 
And pitying sore his mutilated case, 

They only add them all in an appendix, 

Which saves, in fact, the trouble of an index ; 

XLV. 

For there we have them all " at one fell swoop," 
Instead of being scatter'd through the pages ; 

They stand forth marshall'd in a handsome 
troop, 
To meet the ingenuous youth of future ages, 

Till some less rigid editor shall stoop 

To call them back into their separate cages, 

Instead of standing staring altogether, 

Like garden gods — and not so decent either. 

XLVI. 

The Missal too (it was the family Missal) 
Was ornamented in a sort of way 

Which ancient mass-books often are, and this all 
Kinds of grotesquesjllumined ; andhowthey, 

Who saw those figures on the margin kiss all, 
Could turn their optics to the text and pray, 

Is more than I know — But Don Juan's mother 

Kept this herself, and gave her son another. 



Sermons he re.ad, and lectures he endured, 
And \homilies, and lives of all the saints ; 

To Jeroine and to Chrysostom inured, 

He di;d not take snch studies for restraints; 



But how faith is acquired, and then ensared, 

So well not one of the aforesaid paints 
As Saint Augustine in his fine Confessions, 
Which make the reader envy his transgressions 

XLVIII. 

This, too, was a seal'd book to little Juan — 
I can't but say that his mamma was right, 

If such an education was the true one. 

She scarcely trusted him from out her sight 

Her maids were old, and if she took anew one 
You might be sure she was a perfect fright 

She rlid this during even her husband's lile — 

I recommend as much to every wile. 



Young Juan wax'd in goodliness and grace ; 

At six a charming child, and at eleven 
With all the promise of as fine a lace 

As e'er to man's maturer growth was given: 
He studied steadily, and grew apace, 

And seem'd, at least, in the right road tr 
heaven, 
For half his days were pass'd at church, the othei 
Between his tutors, confessor, and mother. 



At six, I said, he was a charming child, 
At twelve he was a fine, but quiet boy ; 

Although in infancy a little wild, 

They tamed him down amongst them : u 
destroy 

His natural spirit not in vain they toil'd. 
At least it seem d so; and his mother's joy 

Was to declare how sage, and still, and steady 

Her young philosopher was grown already. 



I had my doubts, perhaps I have them still, 
But what I say is neither here nor there : 

I knew his father well, and have some skill 
In character — but it would not be fair 

From sire to son to augur good or ill : 
He and his wife were an ill-sorted pair — 

But scandal 's my aversion — I protest 

Against all evil speaking, even in jest. 

Lit. 

For my part I say nothing — nothing — but 
This I will say — my reasons are my own — 

That if I had an only son to put 

To school (as G od be praised that I have none). 

T is not with Donna Inez I would shut 
Him up to learn his catechism alone. 

No — no — I 'd send him out betimes to college, 

For there it was I pick'd up my own knowledge. 



DON JUAN. 



323 



For there one ieams — 't is not for me to boast, 

Though I acquired— but I pass over that, 
As well as all the Greek I since have lost. : 
I say that there's the place — but " Verbum 

sat." 
think I Dick'd up too, as well as most, 
Knowledge of matters — but no matter w hat — 
never married — but, I think, I know 
That sons should not be educated so. 

LIV. 

Young Juan now was sixteen years of age, 
Tail, handsome, slender, but 'well knit: he 
seem'd 

Active, though not so sprightly, as a page ; 
And every body but his mother deem'd 

Him almost man ; but she new in a rage 
And bit her lips (for else she might have 
scream VI) 

If any said so, for to be precocious 

Was in her eyes a thing the most atrocious. 

LV. 

Amongst her numerous acquaintance, all 
Selected for discretion and devotion, 

There was the Donna Julia, whom to call 
Pretty were but to give a feeble notion 

Of many charms in her as natural 

As sweetness to the flower, or salt to ocean, 

Her zone to Venus, or his bow to Cnpid, 

'But this last simile is trite and stupid.) 

LVI. 

The darkness of her Oriental eye 
Accorded with her Moorish origin ; 

(Her blood was not all Spanish, by the by ; 
In Spain, you know, this is a sort of sin.) 

When proud Granada fell, and, forced to fly, 
Boabdil wept, of Donna Julia's kin 

Some went to Africa, some stay'd in Spain, 

Her great great grandmamma chose to remain 

LVII. 

She married (I forget the pedigree) 

With an Hidalgo, who transmitted down 

His blood less noble than such blood should be 
At such alliances his sires would frown, 

In that point so precise in each degree 

That they bred in and in, as might be shown, 

Marrying their cousins — nay, their aunts, and 
nieces, 

Which always spoils the breed, if it increases. 

I.VIII. 

This heathenish cross restored the breed again, 
Ruin'd its blood, but much improved its 
flesh ; 

For from a root the ugliest in Old Spain 
Sprung up a branch as beautiful as fresk ; 



The sons no more were short, the dai ghtcr* 

plain . [hush 

But there's a rumour which I lain would 1 

T is said that Donna Julia's grandmamma 

Produced her Don more heirs at love than law 



However this might be, the race went on 
Improving still through every generation, 

Until it centred in an only son, 

Who left an only daughter; my narration 

May have suggested that this single one 
Could be but Juiia (whom on this ocoasu> 

I shall have much to speak about), and she 

Was married, charming, chaste, and tweuty 
three. 

LX. 

Her eye (I 'm very fond of handsome eyes) 
Was large and dark, suppressing half ita fire 

Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise 
Flash'd an expression more of pride than ire, 

And love than either ; and there would arise 
A something in them which was notdesbe 

But would have been, perhaps, but for the sou. 

Which struggled through and chasten'd down 
the whole. 

LXI. 

Her glossy hair was cluster'd o'er a brow 
Bright with intelligence,and fair, and smooth: 

Her eyebrow's shape was like the aerial bow 
Her check all purple with the beam of youth 

Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow , 
As if her veins ran lightning; she, in soo'Jt. 

Possess dan air and grace by no means common 

Her stature tall — I hate a dumpy woman. 



Wedded she was some years, and to a man 
Of fifty, and such husbands are in plenty, 

And yet, I think, instead of such a one 
'T were better to have two of hve-and-twenty, 

Especially in countries near the sun : 

And now I think on't, "mi vien in mente. 

Ladies even of the most uneasy virtue 

Prefer a spouse whose age is short of thirty 

LXT1I. 

Tis a sad tning, I cannot choose but say. 

And all the fault of that indecent SU n, 
Who cannot leave alone our helpless clay, 

But will keep baking, broiling, burning on 
That howsoever people fast and pray, 

The flesh is frail, and so the soul undone: 
What men call gallantry, and gods adultery 
Is much more common where the climate 
sultry. 
y2 



324 



DON JUAN. 



Happy the nations of the moral North ! 

Where all is virtue, and the winter season 
Sends sin, without a rag on, shivering forth 

(Twas snow that brought St. Anthony to 
reason); 
Where juries cast up what a wife is worth, 

By laying whate'er sum, in mulct, they please 
on 
The. lover, who must pay a handsome price, 
Because it is a marketable vice. 



Alfonso was the name of Julia's lord, 

A man well looking for his years, and who 

Was neither much beloved nor yet abhorr'd : 
They lived together as most people do, 

Suffering each other's foibles by accord, 
And not exactly either one or two; 

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, 

For jealousy dislikes the world to know ii. 



Julia was — yet J never could see why — 
With Donna Inez quite a favourite friend; 

Between their tastes there was small sympathy, 
For not a line had Julia ever penn'd; 

Some people whisper (but, no doubt, they lie, 
For malice stdl imputes some private end) 

That Inez had, ere Don Alfonso's marriage, 

Forgot with him her very prudent carriage; 

LXV.II. 

/.nd that still keeping up the old connection, 
Which time had lately render'd much more 
chaste. 

She took his lady also in affection, 

And certainly this course was much the best: 

She flatter'd Julia with her sage protection, 
And complimented Don Alfonso's taste: 

And if she could not (who can ? ) silence scandal, 

At least she left it a more slender handle. 

LXVIII. 

f can't tell whether Julia saw the affair 
With other people's eyes, or if her own 

Discoveries made, but none could be aware 
Of this, at least no symptom e'er was shown 

Perhaps she did not know, or did not care, 
Indifferent from the first, or callous grown • 

I'm really puzzled what to think or say, 

She kept her counsel in so close a way. 

LXIX. 

Juan she saw, and, as a pretty child, 
Caress'd him often — such a thing might be 

Quite innocently done, and harmless styled, 
When she had twenty years and thirteen he; 



But I am not so sure I should have smiled 

When he was sixteen, Julia twenty- three ; 
These few short years make wondrous altera 

tions, 
Particularly amongst sun-burnt nations. 

I.XX. 

Whate'er the cause might be, they had becoia 

Changed; for the dame grew distant, th 

youth shy, [dutn 

Their looks cast down, their greetings almosj 
And much embarrassment in either eye; 

There surely will be little doubt with some 
That Donna - Julia knew the reason why. 

But as for Juan, he had no more notion 

Than he who never saw the sea of ocean 

LXXI. 

Yet Julia's very coldness still was kind, 
And tremulously gentle her small hand 

Withdrew itself from his, but left behind 
A little pressure, thrilling, and so bland 

And slight, so very slight, that to the mind 
'Twas but a doubt; but ne'er magician's 
wand 

Wrought change with all Armida's fairy ait 

Like what this light touch left on Juan's heart 

LXXI I. 

And if she met him, though she smiled no more, 

She looked a sadness sweeter than her smile, 
As if her heart bad deeper thoughts in store 

She must not own, but cherish'd more the 
while 
For that compression in its burning core ; 

Even innocence itself has many a wile, 
And will not dare to tins., itself with truth, 
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth. 

LXXIII. 
But passion most dissembles, yet betrays 

Even by its darkness; as the blackest sky 
Foretells the heaviest tempest, it displays 

Its workings through the vainly guarded eye 
And in whatever aspect it arrays 

Itseif, 'tis still the same hypocrisy; 
Coldness or anger, even disdain or hate, 
Are masks it often wears, and still too late. 

r.xxiv. 
Then there were sighs, the deeper for sup 
pression, 

And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft, 
And burning blushes, though for no trans 
gression, [left' 

Tremblings when met, and restlessness when 
All these are little preludes to possession, 

Of which young passion cannot be bereft, 
And merely tend to show how greatly love >* 
Euibarrass'd at first starting with a novice. 



DON JUAN. 



32; 



LXXV. 

Poor Julia's heart was in an awkward state; 

She felt it going, and resolved to make 
The noblest efforts for herself and mate, 

For honour's, pride's, religion's, virtue's sake 
Her resolutions \i ere most truly great, 

And almost might have made a Tarquin 
quake : 
She pray'd the Virgin Mary for her grace, 
As being the best judge of a lady's case. 

LXXVI. 

She vow'd she never would see Juan more, 
And next day paid a visit to his mother, 

And look'd extremely at the opening door, 
Which, by the Virgin's grace, let in another ; 

Grateful she was, and yet a little sore — 
Again it opens, it can be no other, 

T is surely Juan now — Nc : I 'm afraid 

That night the Virgin was no further pray'd. 

LXXVII. 

She now determined that a virtuous woman 
Should rather face and overcome temptation, 

That flight was base and dastardly, and no man 
Should ever giv e her heart the least sensatioi. ; 

That is to say, a thought beyond the common 
Preference, that we must feel upon occasion, 

For people who are pleasanter than others, 

But then they only seem so many brothers. 

LXXVIII. 

And even if by chance — and who can tell? 

The devil's so very sly — she should discover 
That all within was not so very well, 

And, if still free, that such or such a lover 
Might please perhaps, a virtuous wife can quell 

Such thoughts, and be the better when they 're 
over; 
And if the man should ask, 't is but denial: 
I recommend young ladies to make trial. 

LXXIX. 

And then there are such things as love divine, 
Bright and immaculate, unmix'd and pure, 

Such as the angels think so very fine, 

And matrons, who would be no less secure, 

Platonic, perfect, "just such love as mine;" 
Thus Julia said — and thought so, to be sure ; 

And so I'd have her think, were I the man 

On whom her reveries celestial ran. 

LXXX. 

Such love is innocent, and may exist 

Between young persons without any danger. 

A hand may first, and then a lip be kist; 
For my part, to such doings I 'm a stranger, 



But hear these freedoms form the utmost lis 
Of all o'er which such iove may be a ranger 
If people go beyond, t is quite a crime, 
But not my fault — I tell them all in time. 

r.xxxi. 

Love, then, hut love within its proper limits. 

Was Julia's innocent determination 
In young Don Juan's favour, and to him its 

Exertion might be useful on occasion; 
And. lighted at too pure a shrine to dim its 

Ethereal iustre, with what sweet persuasion 
He might be taught, by love and her together — 
I really don't know what, nor Julia cither. 

r.xxxn. 

Fraught with this fine intention, and well fenced 
In mail of proof — her purity of soul, 

She, for the future of her strength convinced; 
And that her honour was a rock, or mole, 

Exceeding sagely from that hour dispensed 
With any kind of troublesome control; 

But whether Julia to the task was equal 

Is that which must be mention'd in the sequel. 

LXXXIII. 

Her plan she deem'dboth innocent and feasible. 

And. surely, with a stripling of sixteen 
Not scandal's fangs could fix on much that s 
seizable, 
Or if they did so, satisfied to mean 
Nothing but what was good, her breast was 
peaceable — 
K quiet conscience makes one so serene ! 
Christians have burnt each other, quite per- 
suaded [did. 

That all the Apostles would have done as they 

LXXX i v. 
And if in me mean time her husband died, 
But Heaven forbid that such a thought 
should cross [sigh'd) 

Her brain, though in a dream! (and then she 
Never could she survive that common loss; 
j^ut just suppose that moment should betide, 

I only say suppose it — inter nos. 
(This should be e^tre nous, for Julia thought 
In French, hut then the rhyme would go fix 
nought.) 

LXXXV. 

I only say, suppose this supposition: 

Juan being then grown up to man's estate 

Would fully suit a widow of condition, [late 
Even sever years hence it would notbett* 

And in the interim (to pursue this vision) 
The mischief, after all, could not be great, 

For he would learn th'_> rudiments of love, 

I mean the seraph w av i>i" those above. 



na 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXVI. 

S«> much for Julia. Now we'll turn to Juan. 

Poor little fellow! he had no idea 
Of his own case, and never hit the true one ; 

In feelings quick as Ovid's Miss Medea, 3 2 
H5 puzzled over what he found a new one. 

But not as yet imagined it could be a 
Thing quite in course, and not at all alarming, 
Which, with a little patience, might grow 
charming. 

LXXXVII. 

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow, 
His home deserted for the lonely wood, 

Tormented with a wound he could not know, 
His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude: 

I 'm fond myself of solitude or so, 

But then, I beg it may be understood, 

By solitude I mean a sultan's, not 

A hermit's, with a haram for a grot. 

lxxxvi n 

"Oh Love! in such a wilderness as this, 
Where transport and security entwine, 

Here is the empire of thy perfect bliss, 
And here thou art a god indeed divine." 

The bard I quote from does not sing amiss, 33 
With the exception of the second line, 

For that same twining "transport and security" 

Are twisted to a phrase of some obscurity. 

LXXXIX. 

The poet meant, no doubt, and thus appeals 
To the good sense and senses of mankind, 
The very thing which every body feels, 
As all have found on trial, or may find, 

That no one likes to be disturb'd at meals 
Or love — I won't say more about "entwined" 

>r " transport," as we knew all that before, 

tut beg " Security" will bolt the door. 



Of its disease ; he did the best he could 

With things not very subject to control, 
And t'.rn'd, without perceiving his condition. 
Like Coleridge, into a metaphysician. 

xcn. 
He thought about himself, and the whole earth 

Of man the wonderful, and of the stars, 
And how the deuce they ever could have birth , 

And then he thought of earthquakes, and oJ 
wars, 
How many miles the moon might have in girth 

Of air-balloons, and of the many bars 
To perfect knowledge of the boundless skies ; — 
And then he thought of Donna Julia's eyes. 

xciri. 
In thoughts like these true wisdom may discern 

Longings sublime, and aspirations high, 
Which some are bora with, but the most pa>l 
learn [why 

To plague themselves withal, they know not 
'T was strange that one so young should thus 
concern 
His brain about the action of the sky ; 
If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, 
I can't help thinking puberty assisted. 



He pored upon the leaves, and on the flowers, 
And heard a voice in all the winds ; and then 

He thought of wood-nymphs and immortal 
bowers, 
And how the goddesses came down to men • 

He miss'd the pathway, he forgot the hours, 
And when he look'd upon his watch again, 

He found how much old Time had been a 
winner — 

He also found that he had lost his dinner. 



/oung Juan wander'd by the glassy brooks, 

Thinking unutterable things ; he threw 
Himself at length within the leafy nooks 

Where the wild branch of the cork forest grew ; 
There poets find materials for their books. 

And every now and then we read them 
through, 
So that their plan and prosody are eligible, 
[Tnless, like Wordsworth, they prove unin- 
telligible. 

xci. 
He, Juan, (and not Wordsworth) so pursued 

His self-communion with his own high soul, 
Until his mighty heart, in its great mood, 

Had mitigated part, though not the whole 



xcv. 

Sometimes he turn'd to gaze upon his book, 
Boscan 34 , or Garcilasso 35 ; — by the wind 

Even as the page is rustled while we look, 
So by the poesy of his own mind 

Over the mystic leaf his soul was shook, 
As if 'twere one whereon magicians bind 

Their spells, and give them to the passing gale, 

According to some good old woman's tale. 



Thus would he while his lonely hours away 
Dissatisfied, nor knowing what he -vanted 

Nor glowing reverie, nor poet's lay. 

Could yield his spirit that for which it panted 



DON JUAN. 



327 



A bosom whereon he his head might lay, 
And hear the heart beat with the love it 
granted, 

With several other things which I forget, 

Or which, at least,, I need not mention yet. 

xcvir. 
Those lonely walks, and lengthening reveries, 

Could not escape the gentle Julia's eyes ; 
She saw that Juan was not at his ease ; 

But that which chiefly may, and must sur- 
prise, 
Is, that the Donna Inez did not tease 

Her only son with question or surmise; 
Whether it was she did not see, or would not, 
Or. like all very clever people, could not. 



But what that motive was, I shan't say here, 

Perhaps to finish Juan's education, 
Perhaps to open Don Alfonso's eyes, 
In case he thought his wife too great a prize 

en. 
It was upon a day, a summer's day; — 

Summer 's indeed a very dangerous seasor- 
And so is spring about the end of May; 

The sun no doubt, is the prevailing reason 

But whatsoe'er the cause is, one may say, 

And stand convicted of more truth thau 

treason, [more merry in, — 

That there are months which nature grows 

March has its hares, and May must have its 

heroine. 



This may seem strange, but yet 'tis very com 
mon ; 
For instance — gentlemen, whose ladies take 
Leave to o'erstep the written rights of woman, 

And break the Which commandment 

is 't they break ? 

(I have forgot the number, and think no man 

Should rashly quote, for fear of a mistake.) 

I say when these same gentlemen are jealous, 

They make some blunder, which their ladies 

tell us. 

XCIX. 

A real husband always is suspicious, 

But still no less suspects in the wrong place, 

Jealous of some one who had no such wishes, 
Or pandering blindly to his own disgrace. 

By harbouring some dear lriend extremely 
vicious; 
The last indeed 's infallibly the case: 

And when the spouse and lriend are gone off 
wholly, 

He wonders at their vice, and not his folly. 

c. 

Thus parents also hi e at times short-sighted : 

Though watchful as the lynx, they ne'er 
discover, 
The while the wicked world beholds delighted, 

Young Hopeful's mistress, or Miss Fanny's 
lover, 
Till some confounded escapade has blighted 

The plan of twenty years, and all is over ; 
And then the mother cries, the father swears, 
And wonders why the devil he got heirs. 

ci. 
Wut Inez was so anxious, and so clear 

Of sight, that I must think, on this occasion, 
She had some other motive much more near 

For leaving Juan to this new temptation. 



'Twas on a summer's day — the sixth of June : 

I like to be particular in dates, 
Not only of the age, and year, but moon ; 

They are a sort of post-house, where the 
Fates 
Change horses, making history change its tune, 

Then spur away o'er empires and o'er states, 
Leaving at last, not much besides chronology, 
Excepting the post-obits of theology. 

civ. 
'Twas on the sixth of June, about the hour 

Ofhalf-pastsix — perhaps still nearer seven — 
When Julia sate within as pretty a bower 

As e'er held houri in that heathenish heaven 
Described by Mahomet and Anacreon Moore, 
To whom the lyre and laurels have been 
given, 
With all the trophies of triumphant song — 
He won them well, and may he wear them 
long! 

cv. 
She sate, but not alone ; I know not well 

How this same interview had taken place. 
And even if I knew, I should not tell — 

People should hold their tongues in any 
case ; 
No matter how or why the thing befell, 

But there were she and Juan, face to face — 
When two such faces are so, 't would be wi.>e, 
But, very difficult, to shut their eyes. 

cvi. 
How beautiful she look'd! her conscious ne^r* 
Glow'd in her cheek, and yet she felt nc 
wrong. 
Oh Love.' how perfect is thy mystic art. 
Strengthening the weak, and trampbqg on 
the strong. 



328 



DON JUAN. 



How self-deceitful is the sagest part 

Of mortals whom thy lure hath led along — 
The precipice she stood on was immense, 
So was her creed in her own innocence. 

evil. 
She thought of her own strength, and Juan's 
youth, 

And of the folly of ail prudish fears, 
Victorious •untie, and domestic truth, 

And then of Don Alfonzo's fifty years: 
I wish tnese last had not oecurr'd, in sooth, 

Because that number rarely much endears, 
And through all climes, the snowy and the sunny, 
Sounds ill in love, whate'er it may in money. 

CVIII. 

When people say, " I've told you fifty times,' , 
They mean to scold, and very otten do ; 

When poets say, "I 've written fifty rhymes," 
They make you dread that they'll recite 
them too ; 

In gangs of fifty, thieves commit their crimes; 
At fifty love for love is rare, 'tis true, 

But then, no doubt, it equally as true is, 

A good deal may be bought ion fifty Louis. 

cix. 
/•alia had honour, virtue, truth, and love 

For Don Allonso ; and she inly swore, 
By all the vows below to powers above, 

£hc never would disgrace the ring she wore, 
Nor leave a wish which wisdom might reprove ; 

And while she ponder'd this, besides much 
more, 
One hand on Juan's carelessly was thrown, 
Quite by mistake — she thought it was her own ; 

ex. 

Unconsciously she lean'd upon the other, 
Which play'd within the tangles of her hair ; 

And to contend with thoughts she could not 
smother 
She seem'd, by the distraction of her air. 

Twas surely very wrong in Juan's mother 
To leave together this imprudent pair, 

She who for many years had watch'd her son 
so — 

I'm very certain mine would not have done so. 

CXI. 

The hand which still held Juan's, by degrees 
Gently, but palpably confirm'd its grasp, 

As if it said, " Detain me, if you please ; " 
Yet there's no doubt she only meant to clasp 

His lingers with a pure Platonic squeeze; 
She would have shrunk as from a toad, or asp, 

Had she imagined such a thing; could rouse 

\ feeling dangerous to a prudent spoust. 



I cannot know what Juan thought of this, 
But what he did, is much what you woftlddo 

His young lip thank'd it with a "grateful kiss. 
And then, abash d at its own joy, withdrew 

In deep despair, lest he had done amiss, — 
Love is so very timid when 'tis new: 

She blftsh'd, and frown 'd not, but she strove to 
speak, , weak. 

And held her tongue, her voice was grown si 

CXIII. 

The sun set, and up rose the yellow moon : 

The devil's in the moon for mischief; they 
Who call'd her chaste, methinks,began too soon 

Their nomenclature ; there is not a day, 
The longest, not the twenty-first of June,' 
Sees half the business in a wicked way, 
On which three single hours of moonshine 

smile — 
And then she looks so modest all the while 

cxiv. 
There is a dangerous silence in that hour, 

A stillness, which leaves room for the full sou 
To open all itself, without the power 

Ol calling wholly back its self-control; 
The silver light which, hallowing tree and tower. 
Sheds beauty and deep soltness o'er the whole, 
Breathes also to the heart, and o'er it throws 
A loving languor, which is not repose. 

cxv. 
And Julia sate with Juan, half embraced 

And half retiring from the glowing arm, 
Which trembled like the bosom where 't was 
placed ; [harm. 

Yet still she must have thought there was no 
Or else 'twere easy to withdraw her waist; 
But then the situation had its charm, 

And then God knows what next — I can'l 

go on ; 
I 'm almost sorry that I e'er begun. 



Oh Plato! Plato! you have paved the ay, 
With your confounded fantasies, to more 

Immoral conduct by the fancied sway 

Your system feigns o'er the controulless con 

Of human hearts, than all the long array 
Of poets and romancers : — You 're a bore. 

A charlatan, a coxcomb — and have been, 

At best, no better than a go-between 

XVII. 

And Julia's voice was lost, except in sighs, 
Until too late for useful conversation; 

The tears were gushing from her gentle eyes, 
I wish, indeed, thev had not had occasion 



DON JUAN. 



329 



But who, alas ! ran lovo and then be wise ? 
Not that remorse did not oppose temptation ; 

A. little *iill she strove, and much repented, 

And whispering " I will ne'er consent" — con 
s ntcu 

cxvin 

Tis said that Xerxes od'er'd a reward 
To those who could in vent him a new pleasure: 
ethinks, the requisition's rather hard. 
And must have cost his majesty a treasure: 

For my part. I 'm a moderate-minded bard, 
Fond of a little love (which I call leisure); 

I care not for new pleasures, as the old 

Are quiie enough for me, so they but hold. 

CXIX. 

Oh Pleasure ! you are indeed a pleasant thing, 
Although one must be damn'd lor you, no 
doubt : 

I make a resolution every spring 
Of reformation, ere the year run out, 

But somehow, this my vestal vow takes wing, 
Yet still, I trust, it may be kept throughout : 

I 'm very sorry, very much ashamed, 

And mean, next winter, to be quite reclaim d. 

cxx. 
Here my chaste Muse a liberty must take — 

Start not! still chaster reader — she '11 be 
nice hence- 
Forward, and there is no great cause to quake ; 

This liberty is a poetic licence, 
Which some irregularity may make 

In the design, and as I have a high sense 
Of Aristotle and the Rules, 't is fit 
To beg his pardon when I err a bit. 

CXXI. 

Thrs licence is to hope the reader will 

Suppose from June the sixth, 'the fatal day, 

Without whose epoch my poetic skill 
For want of facts woukl all be thrown away. 

But keeping Julia and Don Juan still 

In sight, that several months have pass'a ; 
we '11 say 

T vas in November, but I'm not so sure 

About the day — the era 's more obscure 

cxxn. 

We'll talk of that anon. — 'T is sweet to hear 
At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep 

Trw song and onr of Adrki's gondolier, 

By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep, 

Tis sweet to see the evening star appear; 
"f is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep 

fiom leaf to leaf; 'tis sweet to view on high 

The rainbow, based on ocean , span the sky. 



cxxm. 

T is sweet to hear the watchdog's honest oart 
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw neai 
home ; 

'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark 
Our coming.and look brighter when we come 

'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark, 

Or lull'd by falling waters ; sweet the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds. 

The lisp of children, and their earliest words 

CXXIV. 

Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes 

In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth, 
Purple and gushing : sweet are our escapes 

From civic revelry to rural mirth ; 
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps, 

Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth, 
Sweet is revenge — especially to women, 
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen. 

cxxv. 
Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet 

The unexpected death of some old lady, 
Or gentlemen of seventy years complete, 
Who've made "us youth" wait too — totf 
long already, 
For an estate, or cash, or country seat, 

Still breaking, but with stamina so steady, 
That all the Israelites are fit to mob its 
Next owner for their double-damn d post-obits. 

cxxvi. 
'Tis sweet to win, no matt* how, one's laurels 
By blood or ink ; 'tis sweet to put an end 
To strife ; 't is sometimes sweet to have oui 
quarrels, 
Particularly with a tiresome friend: 
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in ban-els; 
Dear is the helpless creature we defend, 
Against the world ; and dear the schoolboy spot 
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot. 

cxxvir. 
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all. 
Is first and passionate lore — it stands alone, 
Like Adam's recollection of his fall, 

The tree of knowledge has been pluck 'a — > 
all s known— 
And life yields nothing further to recall 

Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown, 
No doubt in fable, as the untbrgiven 
Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from 
heaven. 

cxxvm. 
Man 's a strange animal, and makes strange use 

Of his own nature, and the various arts. 
And likes particularly to produce 

Sc me new experiment to show his parts ; 



330 



DON JUAN. 



f his is the age of oddities let loose, 

Where different talents find their different 
marts ; [lost your 

Vou'd best begin with truth, and when you've 
Labour, there 's a sure market for imposture. 

CXXIX. 

What opposite discoveries we have seen ! 

(Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) 
One makes new noses, one a guillotine, 

One breaks your bones, one sets them in theii 
sockets ; 
But vaccination certainly has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets, 
With which the Doctor paid off an old pox, 
By borrowing a new one from an ox. 

cxxx. 
Bread has been made(indifferent) from potatoes; 

And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, 
But has not answer'd like the apparatus 

Of the Humane Society's beginning, 
By which men are unsuffocated gratis: 

What wondrous new machines have late 
been spinning! 
[ said the. small-pox has gone out of late ; 
Perhaps it may be follow' d by the great. 

cxxxi. 
Tis said the great came from America; 

Perhaps it may set out on its return, — 
The population there so spreads, they say 

Tis grown high time to thin it in its turn 
With war, or plague, or famine, any way, 

So that civilisation they may learn ; 
And which in ravage the more loathsome evil 

is — 
Their real lues, or our pseudo-syphilis? 

CXXXII. 

This is the patent age of new inventions 
For killing bodies, and for saving souls, 

Ad propagated with the best intentions ; 

Sir Humphry Davy's lantern, by which coals 

Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, 
Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles 

Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, 

Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo. 

CXXXIII. 

M m 's a phenomenon, one knows not what, 

And wonderfulbeyond all wondrous measure ; 
1' is pity though, in this sublime world, that 
Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a 
pleasure ; 
Few mor'als know what end they would be at, 
But whether glory, power, or love, or treasure, 
The path is through perplexing ways, and when 
Vhe goal is gain'd, we die, « ou know — and 
tben 



CXXXIV. 

What then? — I do not know, no more do yon— 
And so good night. — Return we to our story 

'T was in November, when fine days are few 
Ami the far mountains wax a little hoary, 

And clap a white cape on their mantles blue. 
And the sea dashes round the promontory 

And the loud breaker bods against the rock, 

And sober suns must set at five o'clock. 

exxxv. 

Twas, as the watchmen s.ay, a cloudy night; 

No moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud 

By gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was 

bright [crowd; 

With the piled wood, round which the family 
There's something cheerful in that sort of light, 

Even as a summer sky's without a cloud: 
I 'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that, 
A lobster salad, and champagne, and chat. 

CXXXVI. 

'T was midnight — Donna Julia was in bed, 
Sleeping, most probably, — when at her door 

Arose a clatter might awake the dead, 
If they had never been awoke before, 

And that they have been so we all have read, 
And are to be so, at the least, once more ; — 

The door was fasten'd, but with voice and fist 

First Knocks were heard, then " Madam — 
Madam — hist ! 

CXXXVII. 

" For God's sake, Madam — Madam — here s 
my master, 

With more than half the city at his back — ■ 
"Was ever heard of such a curst disaster ! 

'Tis not my fault — I kept good watch — 
Alack!" 
Do pray undo the bolt a little faster — 

They're on the stair just now, and in a crack 
Will all be here ; perhaps he yet may fly- 
Surely the window's not so very high!". 

CXXX VIII. 

Bv this time Don Alfonso was arrived. 

With torches, friends, and servants in great 
number ; 
The major part of them had long been wived 
And therefore paused not to disturb tht 
slumber 
Of any wicked woman, who contrived 

By * stealth her husband's temples to en 
cumber- 
Examples of this kind are so contagious, 
Were one no punish'd,uWwouldbeoutracreou& 



DON JUAN. 



331 



CXXXIX. 

I eani lell 1 ow, or why. or what suspicion 
Could ent;r into Don Alfonso's head; 

But for a cavalier of his condition 
It surely was exceedingly ill-bred, 

Without a word of previous admonition, 
To hold a levee round his lady's bed, 

And summon lackeys, arm'd with tire and sword, 

i'o prove himself tne thing he most abhorr'd. 



Poor Donna Julia! starting as from sleep, 
(Mind — that I do not say — she had not slept) 

Began at once to scream, and yawn, and weep ; 
Her maid Antonia, who was an adept, 

Contrived to rling the bed-clothes in a heap, 
As W she had just now from out them crept; 

I can't tell why she should take all this trouble 

To prove her mistress had been sleeping double. 

CXLI. 

But Julia mistress, and Antonia maid, 

Appear'd like two poor harmless women, who 

Of goblins, Imi still more of men afraid, 
Had thought one man might be deteix'd by 
two, 

And therefore side by side were gently laid. 
Until the hours of absence should run through, 

^.nd truant husband should return, and say, 

." My deai - , 1 was the first who came away." 

CXLII. 

Now Julia found at length a voice, and cried, 

" In heaven's name, Don Alfonso, what d'ye 

mean? [died 

Has madness seized you? would that I had 
Ere such a monster's victim I had been! 

What may this midnight violence betide, 
A sudden fit of drunkenness or spleen ? 

Hare vou suspect me, whom the thought would 
" kill? [will.' 

Search, then, the room!" — Alfonso said "1 

CXLIll. 

He search'd, they search'd, and rummaged 
everywhere. [seat, 

Closets and clothes' press, chest andwindow- 
And found much linen, lace, and several pair 
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, com- 
plete, 
With other articles of ladies fair, 

To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat: 

Arras they prick'd and curtains with their 

swords, [boards. 

And wounded several shutters, and some 



CXL-V. 

Under the bed they search'd, and there the* 

found — 
^ No matter what— it was not that they sought 
They open'd windows, gazing if the ground 
Had signs or footmarks, but the earth saiii 
nought; 
And then they stared each others' faces round 
Tis odd, not one of all these seekers thought 
And seems to me almost a sort of blunder, 
Of looking »'tt the bed as well as under. 

CXLV. 

During this inquisition, Julia's tongue 

Was not asleep — "Yes, search and search," 
she cried, 

" Insult on insult heap, and wrong on wrong. 
It was for this that I became a bride! 

For this in silence I have sutf'er'd long 
A husband like Alfonso at my side; 

But now I'll bear no more, nor here lemain, 

If there be law or lawyers, in all Spain. 

CXLVI. 

" Yes, Don Alfon.-.o ! husband now no more. 

If ever you indeed deserved the name. 
Is't worthy of your years? — yon have three- 
score — 

Fifty, or sfxty, it is all the same — 
Is 't wise or fitting, causeless to explore 

For facts against a virtuous woman's fame? 
Ungrateful, perjured, barbarous Don Alfonso, 
How dare you think your lady would go on so? 

CXLVII. 

" Is it for this I have disdain'd to hold 
The common privileges of my sex? 

That I have chosen a confessor so old 
And deaf, that any other it would vex, 

And never once he has had cause to scold, 
But found my very innocence perplex 

So much, he always doubted I was married — 

How sorry you will be when I've miscarried . 

cxlviii. 
" Was it for tnis that no Cortejo 36 e'er 

I vet have chosen from out the youth of 
Seville? 
Is it for this, I scarce went any where, 

Except to bull-fights, mass, play, rout, and 
revel ? 
Is it for this, whate'er my suites were, 

I favour'd none — nay, was amiost uncivil? 
Is it for this that General Count O'Reilly, 
Who took Algiers 37 , declares I used hjin vileiy? 



332 



DON JUAN. 



CXI.IX 

• Did not the Italian Musico Cazzani 
Sing at my heart six months at least in vain? 

Did not his countryman, Count Corniani, 
Call me the only virtuous wife in Spain? 

Were there not also Russians, Pmglish, many? 
The Count Strongstroganoff I put in pain, 

And Lord Mount Coffeehouse, the Irish peer, 

Who kill'd himself for love (with wine) last year. 



CLIV. 

" And now, Hidalgo! now that you have tnrowt 
Doubt upon me, confusion over all, 

Pray have the courtesy to make it known 
Who is the man you search for? how d'ye 
call [shown— 

Him? what's his lineage? let him but be 
I hope he "s young and handsome — is he tall ? 

Tell me — and be a-sured, that since you stain 

My honour thus, it shall not be in vain 



' Have I not had two bishops at my feet? 

The Duke of I char, and Don Fernan Nunez ; 
4nd is it thus a faithful wife you treat? 

I wander in what quarter now the moon is : 
\ praise your vast forbearance not to beat 

Me also, since the time so opportune is — 
Oh, valiant man ! with sword drawn and cock'd 

trigger, 
Now, tell me, aon't you cut a pretty figure? 



' Was it for this you took your sudden journey, 
Under pretence of business indispensable 

With that sublime of rascals your attorney, 
Wbom I see standing there, and looking 
sensible [spurn, he 

Of having play'd the fool? though both I 
Deserves the worst, his conduct's less de- 
fensible, 

Because, no doubt 'twas for his dirty fee, 

And not from any love to you nor me. 

CLII. 

" If ne comes here to take a deposition, 

By all means let the gentleman proceed ; 
Vou've made the apartment in a fit condi- 
tion : — [need — 

There 's pen and ink for you, sir, when you 
Let every thing be noted with precision, 

I would notyou for nothing should be fee'd — 

But, as my maid's undrest, pray turn your 

spies out." [eyes out." 

Oh ! " sobb'd Antonia, " I could tear their 

CLIII. 

•* There is the closet, there the toilet, there 
The antechamber — search them under, over ; 

There is the sofa, there the great arm-chair, 
The chimney — which would really hold a 
lover. 

I wish to sleep, and beg you will take care 
And make no further noise, till you discover 

The secret cavern of this lurking treasure — 

Ajid when 'tis found, let me, too, have that 
pleasure. 



" At least, perhaps, he has not sixty years, 
At that age he would be too old for slaughter, 

Or for so young a husband's jealous fears — 
(Antonia! let me have a glass of water.) 

I am ashamed of having shed these tears, 
They are unworthy of my father's daughter; 

My mother dream'd not in my natal hour, 

That I should fall into a monster's power. 

CLVI. 

" Perhaps 'tis of Antonia you are jealous, 
You saw that she was sleeping by my side, 

When you broke in upon us with your fellows: 
Look where you please — we've nothing, sir, 
to hide; 

Only another time, I trust, you'll tell us, 
Or for the sake of decency abide 

A moment at the door, that we may be 

Drest to receive so much good company. 

CLVII. 

" And now, sir, I have done, and say no more; 

1'he little I have said may serve to show 
The guileless heart in silence may grieve o'er 

The wrongs to whose exposure it is slow: — ■ 
I leave you to your conscience as before, 

"f will one day ask you why you used me so? 
God grant you feel not then the bitterest grief! — 
Antonia! where 's my pocket-handkerchief? 

CLVIII. 

She ceased, and turn'd upon her pillow; pale 
She lay, her dark eyes dashing through their 
tears, 

Like skies that rain and lighten, as a veil, 
Waved and o'ershading her wan cheek, 
appears [but fail, 

He' streaming hair: the black curls strive, 
To hide the gloss, shoulder, which uprears 

Its snow through al : — her soft lips lie apart 

And louder than her breathing beats her heart 

CLIX. 

The Senhor Don Alfonso stood confused ; 

Antonia bustled round the ransack'd room 
And, turning up her nose, with looks abused 

Hei master and his myrmidons, of whorcv 



DON JUAN. 



333 



Not one, except the attorney, was amused; 

He, like Achates, faithful to the tomb, 
So there were quarrels, cared not for the cause, 
Knowing they must be settled by the laws. 

CLX. 

With prymg snub-nose, and small eyes, he stood, 
Following Antonia's motions here and there, 

With much suspicion in his attitude ; 
For reputations he had little care ; 

So that a suit or action were made good, 
Small pity had he for the young and fair, 

And ne'er believed in negatives, till these 

\Ve v J proved by competent false witnesses 

ct.xi. 

But Don Alfonso stood with downcast looks, 
And, truth to say, he made a foolish figure ; 

When, after searching in rive hundred nooks, 
And treating a young wife with so much 
rigour, 

tie gain'd no point, except some self-rebukes, 
Added to those his lady with such vigour 

Had pour'd upon him for the last hplf-hour, 

$uick, thick, andheavv — as a thunder-shower. 

cr-xn. 

At first he tried io hammer an excuse, 

To which the sole reply was tears, and sobs, 

A.nd indications of hysterics, whose 
Prologue is always certain throes, and throbs, 

jasps, and whatever else the owners choose: 
Alfonso saw his wife,' and thought of Job's ; 

He saw too, in perspective, her relations 

And then he tried to muster all his patience. 

CLXIII. 
He stood in act to speak, or rather stammer, 

But sage Antonia cut him short be. ore 
The anvil of his speech received the hammer, 

With " Pray, sir, leave the room, and say 

no more, [her," 

Or madam dies." — Alfonso mutter "d, " D — n 

But nothing else, the time of words was o'er; 
He cast a rueful look or two, and did, 
He knew not wherefore, that which he was bid. 

CLXIV. 

With him retired his " posse comitatus," 

The attorney last, who linger'd near the door 

Reluctantly, still tarrying there as late as 
Antonia let him — not a little sore 

At this most strange and unexplain'd " hiatus" 
In Don Alfonso's facts, wnich just now wore 

An awkward look ; as he revolved the case, 

The door was fasten 'd in his le^al face. 



CLXV. 

No sooner was it bolted, than — Oh shame ! 

Oh sin! Oh sorrow! and Oh womankind ! 
How can you do such things and keep your fame. 

Unless this world, and t' other too, be blind ? 
Nothing so dear as an unfilch'd good name ! 

But to proceed — for there is more behind: 
With much heartfelt reluctance be it said, 
Young Juan slipp'd, half-sin other'd, from the bed 

CLX VI. 

He had been hid — I don't pretend to say 

How, nor can I indeed describe the where- 
Young, slender, and pack'd easily, he lay, 

No douct. in little compass, round or square, 
But pity him I neither must nor may 
His sutfbeation by that pretty pair; 
'Twere better, sure, to die so, than be shut 
With maudlin Clarence in his Malmsey butt. 

CLXVII. 

And, secondly, I pity not, because 
He had no business to commit a sin, 

Forbid by heavenly, fined by human laws,, 
At least 't was rather early to begin ; 

But at sixteen the conscience rarely g'naw r s 
So much as when we call our old debts in 

At sixty years, and draw the accompts of eviL 

And find a deuced balance with the devil. 

CLXVIII 

Of his position I can give no notion. 

T is written in the Hebrew Chronicle, 
How the physicians, leaving pill and potion 

Prescribed by way of blister, a young belie 
When Old King David's blood grew dull ic 
motion, 

And that the medicine answer'd very well. 
Perhaps 't was in a different way app:ied, 
For David lived, but Juan nearly died. 

CLXIX. 

What's to be done ? Alfonso will be back 
The moment he has sent his fools away. 

Antonia's skill was put upon the rack, 

But no device could be brought intoplay- 

And how to parry the renew'd attack ? 
Besides, it wanted but few hours of day : 

Antonia puzzled ; Julia did not speak, 

But press'd her bloodless lip to Juan's cheek. 

CLXX. 

He turn'd his lip to hers, and with his hand 
Cafl'dback the tangles of her wandering hair 

Even then their love they could not all com 
maud, 
And half forgot their danger and despair, 



334 



DON JUAN. 



Antonia's patience now was at a stand — 
Come, come, 't is no time now for fooling 
there," 
She whisper'd,in great wrath — " I must deposit 
This pretty gentleman within the closet : 

CLXXI. 

* Pray, keep your nonsense for some luckier 
night — 

Who can have put my master in this mood? 
What will become on 't — 1 'm in such a fright, 

The devil 's in the urchin, and no good — 
Is thiy a time for giggling? this a plight? 

Why, don't vou know that it may end in 
blood? " 
You '11 lose your life, and I shall lose my place, 
My mistress all, for that half-girlish face. 

CLXXII. 

" Had it but been tor a stout cavalier 

Of twenty-five or thirty — (come, make haste) 

But for a child, what piece of work is here ! 
I really, madam, wonder at your taste — 

(Come, sir, get in) — my master must be near : 
There, for the present, at the least, he 's fast, 

And if we can but till the morning keep 

Our counsel — (Juan, mind, youmust not sleep.'"' 

3LXXIII. 

Now, Don Alfonso entering, but alone, 
Closed the oration of the trusty maid : 

She loiter'd, u.nd he told her to be gone, 
An order somewhat sullenly obey'd ; 

However, present remedy was none, 

And no great good seem'd answer'd if she 
staid : 

Regarding both with slow and sidelong view, 

She snuff d the candle, curtsied, and withdrew. 

CLXXIV. 

Alfonso paused a minute — then begun 

Some strange excuses for his late proceeding ; 

He would not justify what he had done, 
To say the best, it was extreme ill-breeding ; 

But there were ampie reasons for it, none 
Of which he speciried in this bis pleading : 

His speech was a fine sample, on the whole, 

Of rhetoric, which the learn'd call " rigmarole." 

CLXXV. 

lulia said nought ; though all the while there 
rose 

A ready answer, which at once enables 
A matron, who her husband's foible knows 

By a few timely words to turn the tables, 
Which, if it does not silence, stillmust pose, — 

Even if it s'hould comprise a pack of fables; 
'Tis to retort with firmness, and when he 
Suspects with one. do you reproach with iiiree. 



CLXXI I. 

Julia, in fact, had toleratle grounds — 
Alfonso's loves with Inez were well known 

But whether 'twas that one's own guilt con 
founds — 
But that can t be, as has been often showr. 

A lady with apologies abounds ; — 

It might be that her silence sprang alone 

From delicacy to Don Juan's ear, 

To whom she knew his mother's lame was dear. 

clxxv n . 
There might be one more motive, which make* 
two; 
Alfonzo ne'er to Juan had alluded, — 
Mention' d his jealousy, but never who 

Had been the happy lover, he concluded, 
Conceal'd amongst Ins premises ; 'tis true 
His mind the more o'er this its mystery 
brooded ; 
To speak of Inez now were, one may say, 
Like throwing Juan in Alfonso's way. 

CLXXVIII. 

A hint, in tender cases, is enough ; 

Silence is best, besides there is a tact — 
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff, 

But it will servetokeep my verse compact; — 
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather 
rough, 

A lady always distant from the fact : 
The charming creatures lie with such a grace. 
There 's nothing so becoming to the lace. 

CLXXIX. 

They blush, and we believe them ; at least I 

Have always done so ; 't is of no great use. 
In any case, attempting a reply, 

For then their eloquence grows quite profuse: 
And when at length they 're out of breath, the^ 
sigh, 
And cast their languid eyes down, and let 
loose 
A tear or two, and then we make it up ; 
And then — and then — and then — sit down 
and sup. 

CLXXX. 

Alfonzo closed his speech, and begg'd hei 
pardon, [granted 

Which Julia half withheld, and then hal 
And laid conditions he thought very hard on, 

Denying several little things he wanted : 
He stood like Adam lingering near his garden 

With useless penitence perplex'd iui« 
haunted, 
Beseeching she no further would refuse 
When, lo ! he stumbled o'er a pair ol 



DON JUAN. 



335 



CLXXXI. 

h. pair of shoes! — what then? not much, if they 
Are such as fit with ladies' feet, but these 

(No one can tell how much I grieve to- say) 
Were masculine ; to see them, and to seize 

Was but a moment's act. — Ah ! well-a-day ! 
My teeth begin to chatter, my veins freeze 

Alfonso first examined well their fashion, 

And then flew out into another passion. 

CLXXXII. 

He left the room for his relinquish'd sword, 
And Julia instant to the closet flew. 

" Fly, Juan, fly! for heaven's sake — not a 
word — 
The door is open — you may yet slip through 

The passage you so often have explored — 
Here is the garden-key — Fly — fly — Adieu! 

Haste — haste ! I hear Alfonso's hurrying feet — 

Day has not broke — there's no one in the 
street." 

CLXXXIII. 

None can say that this was not good advice, 
The only mischief was, it came too late; 

Of all experience 'tis the usual price, 
A sort of income-tax laid on by fate : 

Juan had reach'd the room-door in a trice, 
And might have done so by the garden-gate, 

But met Alfonso in his dressing-gown. 

Who threaten'd death — so Juan knock'd him 
down 

CLXXXIV. 

Dire was the scuffle, and out went the light; 

Antoniacriedout" Rape! "and Julia" Fire! " 
Lut not a servant stirr'd to aid the fight. 

Alfonso, pommell'd to his heart's desire, 
Swore lustily he'd be revenged this night; 

And Juan, too, blasphemed an octave higher ; 
His blood was up : though young,he was a Tartar, 
And not at all disposed to prove a martyr. 

Ci.XXXV. 

Alfonso's sword had dropp'd erehe could draw it, 
And they continued battling hand to hand, 

For Juan very luckily ne'er saw it ; 

His temper not being under great command, 

r t" at that moment, he had chanced to claw it, 
Alfonso's days had not been in the land 

M uchioiiger. — Think ofhusbands', loi ers' Jives • 

And how ye may be. doubly widows — wives ! 

CLXXXVI. 

Alfonso grappled to detain the foe. 

And Juan throttled him to get away, 
And blood ('twas from the nose) began to flow ; 

At last, as they more faintly wrestling lay, 



Juan contrived to give an awkward blow, 

And then his only garment quite gave waj 
He fled, like Joseph, leaving it; but there, 
I doubt, all likeness ends between the pair. 

CLXXXVII. 

Lights came at length, and men, and maids 
who found 

An awkward spectacle their eyes before ; 
Antonia in hysterics. Julia swoon'd, 

Alfonso leaning, breathless, by the door ; 
Some half-torn drapery scatter'd on the ground 

Some blood, and several footsteps, but nc 
more : 
Juan the gate gain'd, turn'd the key about, 
And liking not the inside, lock'd the out, 

CLXXXVIII. 

Here ends this canto. — Need I sing, or say, 
How Juan, naked, favour'd by the night, 

Who favours what she should not, found h s 
way, 
And reach'd his home in an unseemly pligh ? 

The pleasant scandal which arose next day. 
The nine days' wonder which was brou^ut 
to light, 

And how Alfonso sued for a divorce, 

Were in the English newspapers, of course. 

CLXXXIX. 

If you would like to see the whole proceedings. 

The oppositions, and the cau.se at full, 
The names of all the witnesses, the pleadings 

Of counsel to nonsuit, or to annul, 
There's more than one edition, and the readings 

Are various, but they none of them are dull 
The best is that in short-hand ta'en by Gurney 
Who to Madrid on purpose made a journey. 

CXC. 

But Donna Inez, to divert the train 
Of one of the most circulating scandals 

That had for centuries been known in Spain, 
At least since the retirement of the Vandals, 

First vow'd (and never had she vow'd in vain. 
To Virgin Mary several pounds of candles : 

And then, by the advice of some old ladies, 

She sent her son to be shipp'd off from Cadiz. 



She had resolved that he should travel through 
All European climes, by land or sea, 

To mend his former morals, and get new, 
Especially in France and Italy, 

(At least this is the thing most people do.) 
Julia was sent into a convent: she 

Grieved, but, perhaps, her feelings may be better 

Shown in the following copy of her Letter :— 



336 



PON JUAN. 



CXCII. 

" They tell me 't is decided ; you depart : 

"T is wise — 't is well, but not the less a pain ; 
I have no further claim on your young heart, 

Mine is the victim, and would be again; 
To love too much has been the only art 

I used ; — I write in haste, and if a stain 
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears; 
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears. 

cxcni. 
" I loved, I love you, for this love have lost 

State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own 
esteem, 
And yet can not regret what it hath cost, 

So dear is still the memory of that dream ; 
Yet, if I name my guilt, 't is not to boast, 

None can deem harshlier of me than I deem : 
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest — 
I 've nothing to reproach, or to request. 

cxciv. 
" Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 

'T is woman's whole existence ; man may 

range [man, 

The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the 

Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, 

And lew there are whom these can not 
estrange ; 
Men have all these resources, we but ope, 
To love again, and be again undone. 

cxcv. 
" You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride, 

Beloved and loving many ; all is o'er 
For me on earth, except some years to hide 

My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's 
cpre ! 
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside 

The passion which st : ll rages as before, — 
And so farewell — forgive me. love me — No, 
That word is idle now — but let it go. 



I had not lived till now, could sorrow kill", 
Death shuns the wretch who fain the blow 
would meet, 
And I must even survive this last adieu, 
And bear with life, to love and pray for you !' 



This note was written upon gilt-edged paper 
With a neat little crow-quill, slight and new; 

Her small white hand could hardly reach th« 
taper, 
It trembled as magnetic needles do, 

And yet she did not let one tear escape her ; 
The seal a sunflower : " Elle vous suit par- 

tout,"** 

The motto cut upon a white cornelian ; 
The wax was superfine, its hue vermilion. 

CXCIX. 

This was Don Juan's earliest scrape ; t>at 
whether 
I shall proceed with his adventures is 
Dependent on the public altogether; 

We '11 see however, what they say to this, 
Their favour in an author's cap 's a feather, 
And no great mischief's done by theii 
caprice ; 
And if their approbation we experience, 
Perhaps they '11 have some more about a yeai 
hence. 

cc. 
My poem 's epic, and is meant to be 

Divided in twelve books ; each book con- 
taining, 
With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea, 
A list of ships, and captains, and kings 
reigning, 
New characters ; the episodes are three : 

A panoramic view of hell's in training, 
After the style of Virgil and of Hcmer, 
So that my name of Epic 's no misnomer. 



" My breast has been all weakness, is so yet , 
But still I think I can collect my mind ; 

My blood still rushes where my spirit's set, 
As roll the waves before the settled wind ; 

My heart is feminine, nor can forget — 
To all, except one image, madly blind; 

So shakes the needle, and so stands the pole, 

As vibrates my fond heart to my fix'd soul. 

exevn. 
" I have no more to say. but linger still, 

And dare not set my seal upon this sheet, 
And yet I may as well the task fulfil, 

My misery can scarce be more complete ; 



All these things will be specified in time, 
With strict regard 1o Aristotle's rules, 

The Vade Mecum of the true sublime, 
Which makes so many poets, and some fools 

Prose poets like blank-verse, I 'm fond of rhyme 
Good workmen never quarrel with their tools 

I 've got new mythological machinery, 

And very handsome supernatural scenery. 

ecu. 
There 's only one slight difference betweeft 

Me and my epic brethren gone before, 
And here the advantage is my own, I ween* 

(Not that I have not several merits more. 



DON JUAN. 



337 



But this will more- peculiarly be seen); 

They so embellish, that 't is quite a bore 
Their labyrinth ot' fables to thread through, 
Whereas this story's actually true. 

ccm. 
If any person doubt it, I appeal 

To history, tradition, and to tacts, 
To newspapers, whose truth ail know and feel, 

To plays in fire, and operas in three acts; 
All these confirm my statement a good deal, 

But that which more completely faith exacts 
Is, that myself, and several now in Seville, 
Saw Juan's last elopement with the devil. 



If ever I should condescend to prose, 

I '11 write poetical commandments, which 

Shall supersede beyond nil doubt all those 
That went before ; in these I shall enrich 

My text with many things that no jne knows, 
And cany precept to the highest pitch : 

I '11 call the work " Longinus o'er a Bottle, 

Or, Every Poet his own Aristotle." 

ccv. 
Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope , 
Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth. Cole- 
ridge, Southey ; 
Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, 
The second drunk, the third so quaifct and 
mouthy ; 
With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, 
And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat 
drouthy : 
Thou shalt not sloal from Samuel Rogers, nor 
Commit — flirtation with the muse of Moore. 

, ccvi. 

Thou shalt not covet Mr. Sotheby's Muse, 

His Pegasus, nor any thing that's his; 
Thou shalt not bear false witness like " the 
Blues " — 

(There's one, at least, is very fond of this) ; 
Thou .-halt not write, in short, but whatl choose : 

This is true criticism, and. you may kiss — 
Exactly as you please, or not, — the rod; 
Bui i»' you don't, I'll lay it on, by G — d: 

ccvii. 
If any person should presume to assert 

This story is not moral, first. I pray, 
That they will not cry out before they're hurt, 

Then that they'll read it o'er again, and say, 
(But, doubtless, nobody will be so pert,) 

That this is not a moral tale, though gay 
Besides, in Canto Twelfth, I mean to show 
The very place where wicked people go 

23 



ccvni. 

If, after all, there should be some so blind 
To their own good this warning to desp..« 

Led by some tortuosity of uhiia, 

Not to believe my verse and their own e\ a» 

And cry that they " the moral cannot fin.!.' 
I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies; 

Should captains the remark, or critics, niuk«. 

They also lie too — under a mistake. 

ccix. 
The public approbation I expect, 

And beg they'll take my word about i.s 
moral. 
Which I with their amusement will connect 
(So children cutting teeth receive a coral.; 
Meantime they'll doubtless please to recoiled! 

My epical pretensions to the laurel: 
For fear some prudish readers should grow 
skittish, [British. 

I've bribed my grandmother's review — tu 

ccx. 
I sent it in a letter to the Editor, 

Who thank'd me duly by return of post — 
I 'm for a handsome article his creditor ; 

Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast. 
And break a promise after having made it hot, 

Denying the receipt of what it cost, 
And smear his page with gall instead of honey. 
All I can say is — that he had the money. 

CCXI. 

I think that with this holy now alliance 
I may ensure the public, and defy 

All other magazines of art or science, 
Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I 

Have not essay'd to multiply their clients 
Because they tell me 'twere in vain to !.-y, 

And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarter?? 

Treat a dissenting author very martyrly 

ccxn. 

' Non ego hoc ferrem ealida juventa 
Consult Plcmco," Horace said, and so 

Say I; by vhich quotation there is meant a 
Hint that some six or seven good years ago 

(Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta 
I was most ready to return a blow. 

And would not brook at all this sort of thin£ 

In my hot youth — when George the Third 
was King. 

cexm. 

But now at rhirty years my hai r 's grey — 
(I wonder what it will be like at forty? 
thought of a peruke the other day — ) 
My heart is n< t much greener ; and, in short, i 

7. 



338 



DON JUAN. 



Have squander'd my whole summer while 
'twas May, 
And f eel no more the spirit to retort; I 
FIa\ e sjsmu my life, both interest and principal, 
And deuu not, what I deem'd, m, soul invin- 



ccxiv. 
No more — no more — Oh! never more on me 

'I he freshness of the heart can fall like dew, 
Which out of all the lovely things we see 

Extracts emotions beautiful and new, 
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o'the bee, 

Think'st thou the honey with those objects 
grew? 
Alas! 'twas not in them, but in thy power 
To double even the sweetness of a flower. 

ccxv. 
No more — no more — Oh! never more, my 
heart, 
Canst thou be my sole world, my universe ; 
Once all in all, but now a thing apart, 

Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse : 
The illusion's gone forever, and thou art 
Insensible. I trust, but none the worse, 
And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment 
Though heaven knows how it ever found a 
lodgment. 

ccxvi. 
My days of love are over ; me no more 

The charms of maid, wife, and still less of 
widow, 
Can make the fool of which they made before, — 

In short, I must not lead the life I did do; 
The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er, 

The copious use of claret is forbid too, 
So for a good old-gen'Jemanly vice, 
I think I must take up with avarice. 

CCXVII. 

Ambition was my idol, which was broken 
Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure ; 

And the two last have left me many a token, 
O'er which reflection maybe made at leisure 

Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've 

spoken, [chymic treasure 

" Time is, Time was, Time's past 39 : " — a 

1 i glittering youth, which I have spent be- 
times — 

My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes. 

cr.xvill. 

What is the end of Fame? tis but to fill 
A certain portion of uncertain paper : 

Some liken it to climbing up a hill, 

Whose summit, like all hills.is lost in vapour; 



for this men write, speak, preach, and aermk 

kill, [night taper," 

And bards burn what they call their " mid 

To have, when the original is dust, 

A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. 

CCXIX. 

What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's Kiiij 
Cheops erected the first pyramid 

And largest, thinking it was just the thing 
To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid , 

But somebody or other rummaging 
Burglariously broke his coffin's lid; 

Let not a monument give you or me hopes, 

Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops. 

cexx. 

But I being iond of true philosophy. 

Say very often to myself, " Alas ! 
All things that have been born were born to die. 

And flesh (which Death mows down to hay 
is grass; 
You've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly. 

And if you had it o'er again — 'twould pass — 
So thank your stars that matters are no worse 
And read yourBible,sir,and mind your purse. 

ccxxi. 
But for the present, gentle reauer! and 

Still gentler purchaser! the bard — that 'si — 
Must, with pennission, shake you by the hand, 

And so your humble servant, and good-b'yc . 
We meet again, if we should understand 

Each other; and if not, I shall not try 
Your patience further tnan by this short 

sample — 
T were well if others follow'd my example. 

ccxxn. 

" Go, little book, from this my solitude ! 

I cast thee on the waters — go thy ways! 
And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, 

The world will find thee after many day,*.' 
When Southey 's read, and Wordsworth under 
stood, 

I can't help putting in my claim to praise- 
The four first rhymes are Southey 's every Hue 
For God s sake, reader! take them not for mint 



DON JUAN. 



Bon gjuan. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 40 



H ye! who teach the ingenious y«"iih of 
nations, [Spain, 

Holland, France, England, Ghsimany, or 
I pray ye flog them upon all occasion^, 

It mends their morals, never mind ib<~ pain: 
The best of mothers and of educations 

In Juan's case were but employ 'd in vain, 
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he 
Became divested of his native modesty. 

ii. 
Had he out been placed at a public school, 

In the third form, or even in the fourth. 
His daiiy task had kept his fancy cool, 

At least, had he been nurtured in the north; 
Spain may prove an exception to the rule, 

But then exceptions always prove its worth — 
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce 
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course. 

in. 

I can't say that it puzzlev me at all, 

If all things be consider'd: first, there was 

His lady-mother, mathematical, 

A never mind; — his tutor, an old ass; 

A pretty woman — (that's quite natural, 
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass) 

A husband rather old, not much in unity 

With his young wife — a time and opportunity 

IV. 

SVell — well, the woYld must turn upon its axis, 
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, 

And live and die, make love and pay our taxes, 
And as the veering windshifts,shittoursails; 

Th- king commands us,and the doctor quacks us, 
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales, 

A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame, 

Fighting, devotion, dust, — perhaps a name. 



An Arab horse, a stately stag, a barb 
New broke, a cameleopard, a gazelle. 

No— none of these will do ; — and then thei. 
garb ! 
Their veil and petticoat— Alas ! to dwell 

Upon such things would very near absorb 
A canto — then their feet and ankles, — weK, 

Thank Heaven I've got nometaphor quite ready 

(And so, my sober Muse — come, let 's b 
steady — 



Chaste Muse! — well, if you must, you must) — 
the veil • [hand 

Thrown back a moment with the glancing 
While theo'erpoweringeye, that turns you pal<- 

Flashes into the heart:— All sunny Ian i 
Of love ! when I forget you, may 1 .ail 

To say my prayers — but never vns there 

plann'd [vol .-y 

A dress through which the eyes givo suvL 
Excepting the Venetian Fazzivii.** 



But to our tale : the Donna Inez s^nt 
Her son to Cadiz only to embark. 

To stay there had not answer'd her intent, 
But why ? — we leave the reader in the dark — 

T was for a voyage that the young man w as 
meant, 
As if a Spanish ship were Noah"s ark, 

To wean him from the wickedness of earth, 

And send him like a dove of promise forth. 



Don Juan bade his val*t pack his things 
According to direction, then received 

A lecture and some money : lor four .springs 
He was to travel ; and though Inez grie<.e4 

(As every kind of parting has its stings), 
She hoped he would improve — perhaps te 
lieved: 

A letter, too, she gave (he never read it) 

Of good advice — and two or three of credit. 



I said, that Juan had been sent to Padi?. — 
A pretty town, I recollect it well — 

Tis there the mart of the colonial trade is, 
(Or was, before Pern learn'd to rebel,) 

And such sweet girls — I mean, such graceful 

ladies, [swell ; 

Their veiy walk would make your bosom 

J can't describe it. though so much it strike, 

Nor iikwi r* — I never saw the like : 



In the mean time, to -jass her hours away, 
Brave Inez now set up a Sunday school 

For naughty children, who "rould rather p ] ay 
(Like Irr-uH rogues; the devil, or the tool; 

Infants of three years old were taugtit that day' 
Dunces were whipt, or set upon a stool: 

The great success of Juan's education. 

Spurr'd her to teach another geDeratio- 



340 



DON JUAN. 



Juan embark' d — the ship got, under way, 
The wind was fair, the water passing rough; 

A devil of a sea rolls in that bay, 

As I, who 've cross'd it oft, know well fiough ; 

And standing upon the deck, the nasnmg spray 
Flies in one's face, and makes it weather-tough: 

And there he stood to take, and take again, 

His first — perhaps his last — farewell of Spain. 



[ can't but say it is an awkward sight 

To see one's native land receding through 

The growing waters; it unmans one quite, 
Especially when life is rather new: 

I recollect Great Britain's coast looks while, 
But almost every other country 's blue, 

When gazing on them, mystified by distance, 

We enter on our nautical existence. 



So Juan stood, bewilder'd on the deck : 

The wind sung, cordage strain'd, and sailor* 
swore, 

And the ship creak'd, the town became a speck, 
From which away so fair and fast they bore 

The best of remedies is a beef-steak 

Against sea-sickness 42 : try it, sir, before 

Vou sneer, and I assure you this is true, 

For I have found it answer — so may you. 



Don Juan stood, and, gazing from the stern, 
Beheld his native Spain receding far: 

First partings form a lesson hard to learn, 
Even nations feel this when they go to war; 

There is a sort of unexprest concern, 

A kind of shock that sets one's heart ajar: 

At leaving even the most unpleasant people 

And places, one keeps looking at the steeple 



But Juan had got many things to leave 
His mothtr, and a mistress, and no wife, 

So lhat he had much better cause to grieve, 
Than many persons more advanced in life; 

And if we now and then a sigh must heave 
At quitting even those we quit in strife, 

No doubt we weep "or those the heart endears — 

That is, till deeper griefs congeal our tears. 



So Juan wept, as wept the captive Jews 
By Babel's waters, still remembering Sion : 

I'd weep — but mine is not a weeping Muse, 
And su Sh light griefs are not a thing; to die on • 



Young men should travel, if but to amuse 
Themselves; and the nexf time their servants 
tie on 
Behind their carriages their new portmanteau. 
Perhaps it may be lined with this my canto. 

XVII. 

And Juan wept, and much hesigh'd and thought, 
While his salt tears dropp'd intothesalt sea, 

" Sweets to the sweet ; " (I like, so much 10 

quote ; [sLr, 

You must -excuse this extract, — t is where 

The Queen of Denmark, for Ophelia brought 
Flowers to the grave ;) and,, sobbing often, ho 

Reflected on his present situation, 

And seriously resolved on reformation. 

XVTII. 

" Farewell, my Spain ! along farewell !" he cried , 
" Perhaps I may revisit thee no more, 

But die, as many an exiled heart hath died, 
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore : 

Farewell, where Guadalquivir's waters glide . 
Farewell, my mother! and, since all is o'er 

Farewell, too, dearest Julia ! — (here he drew 

Her letter out again, and read it through.) 



"And oh ! if e er I should forget, I swear — 

But that's impossible, and cannot be — 
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air, 

Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea, 
Than I resign thine image, oh, my fair! 

Or think of any thing excepting thee ; 
A mind diseased no remedy can physic — 
(Here the ship gave a lurch, and he grew sea- 
sick.) 

xx. 
" Sooner shall heaven kiss earth — (he:e he fell 
sicker) 

Oh. Julia ! what is every other woe? — 
(For God's sake, let me have a glass of liquor ; 

Pedro, Battista, help me down below.) 
Julia, my love! — (you rascal, Pedro, quicker) — 

Oh Julia ! — (this curst vessel pitches so) — 
Beloved Julia, hear me still beseeching ! " 
(Here he grew inarticulate with retching ) 

XXI. 

He felt that chilling heaviness of heart. 
Or rather stomach, which, alas ! attends, 

Beyond the best apothecary's art, 

The loss of love, the treachery of friends, 

Or death of those we dote on, when a part 
Of us dies with them as each fond hope end? 

No doubt he would have been much more pa 
thetic, 

But the sea acted as a strong emetic. 



DON JUAN. 



34 



L«»vtf'sa capricious power: I 've known it hold 
Out through a fever caused by its own heat, 

But be much puzzled by a cough and cold, 
And find a quinsy very hard to treat; 

Against all noble maladies he's bold, 
But vulgar illnesses don't like to meet, 

Nor that a sneeze should interrupt his sigh, 

Nor inrlammations redden his blind eye. 

XXIII. 
But worst of all is nausea, or a pain 

About the lower region of the bowels : 
Love, who heroically breathes a vein, 

Shrinks from the application of hot towels, 
And purgatives are dangerous to his reign, 

Sea-sickness death: his love was perfect, 
how else 
Could Juan s passion, while the billows roar, 
Resist his stomach, ne'er at sea before? 

XXIV. 

The ship, call'd the most holy " Trinidada," 
Was steering duly for the port Leghorn ; 

For there the Spanish family Moncada 

Were settled long ere Juan's sire was born* 

They were relations, and for them he had a 
Letter of introduction, which the morn 

Of his departure had been sent him by 

'His Spanish friends for those in Italy. 

XXV. 

His suite consisted of three servants and 

A tutor the licentiate Pedrillo, 
Who several languages did understand, 

But now lay sick and speechless on his 
pillow, 
And, roetflng in his hammock, long'd for land, 

His headachbeingincreased by every billow; 
And the waves oozing through the portrhole 

made 
His berth a little damp, and him afraid. 

XXVI. 

T was not without some reason, for the wind 
Increased at night, until it blew a gale ; 
nd though 't was not much to a naval mind. 
Some landsmen would have look'd a little 
pale, 
For sailors are, in fact, a different kind : 

At sunset they began to take in sail, 
For tne sky show'd it would come on to blow, 
And carry away, perhaps, a mast or so. 

XXVII. 

At one o'clock the wind with sudden shift 
Threw the ship right into the trough of the 
sea, [rift, 

Which struck her aft, and made an awkward 
Started the stern-post, also shatter' d the 



Whole of her stern-frame, and . ere she could li ft 

Herself from out her piv«snt jeopardy, 
The rudder tore away : 't w as time to sound 
The pumps, and there wer i four feet water 
found. 

XXVIII. 
One gang of people instantly was put 

Upon the pumps, and the remainder set 
To get up part of the cargo, aui what not ; 

But they could not come at the leak as yet; 
At last they did get at it really, but 

Still their salvation was an even bet: 
The water rush'd through in a way quite 
puzzling, [of muslin 

While they thrust sheets, shirts, jackets, bales 

XXIX. 

Into the opening ; but all such ingredients 
Would have been vain, and they must have 
gone down, 
Despite of all their efforts and expedients, 
But for the pumps; I 'in glad to make them 
known [hence, 

To all the brother tars who may have need 

For fiity cons of water were npthrown 
By them per horn, and they had all been un- 
done, 
But for the maker, Mr. Mann, of London 



As day advanced the weather seem'd to abaU 
And then the leak they reckon'd to reduce, 
And keep the ship afloat, though three feet yd 
Kept two hand and one chain-pump still in 
use. 
The wind blew fresh again : as it grew late 
A squall came on, and while some gun* 
broke loose, [cends- » 

A gust — which all descriptive power trans- 
La' d with one blast the ship on her beam endj. 

XXXI. 

There she lay, motionless, and seem'd upset, 
The waterieftthe hold, and wash'd the decks, 

And made a scene men do not soon forget; 
For they remember battles, fires, and wrecks, 

Or any other thing that brings regret, 

Or breaks their hopes, or hearts, or heads, 
or necks: [divers, 

Thus drownings are much talk'd of by the 

And swimmers, who may chance to be sur 
vivors. 

XXXII. 

Immediately the masts were cut away, 

Both main and mizeti ; rirst the mizen went 

The main-mast follow'd: but the ship still lay 
Lik*- h were inn. and baffled our intent. 



541! 



DON JUAN 



foremast and bowsprit were cut down, and 

they 
Eased her at last (although wo never meant 
To part with ail till every hope was blighted), 
Vnd then with violence the old ship lighted. 

XXXIII. 

it may be easily supposed, while this 
Was going on, some people were unquiet, 

That passengers would rind it much amiss • 
To lose their lives, as well as spoil their diet ; 

That even the able seaman, deeming his 
Days nearly o'er, might be disposed to riot, 

As upon such occasions tars will ask 

For grog, and sometimes drink rum from the 
cask. 

XXXIV. 

There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit 
calms 
As rum and true religion : thus it was, 
Some plunder'd, some drank spirits, some sung 
psalms, 
The high wind made the treble, and as bass 
The hoarse harsh waves kept time ; fright cured 
the qualms 
Of all the luckless landsmen's sea-sick maws: 
Strange sounds of wailing, blasphemy, devotion, 
Clamour'd in chorus to the roaring ocean. 

xxxv. 

Perhaps more mischief had been done, but for 
Our Juan, who, with sense beyond his years, 

Got to the spirit-room, and stood before 
It with a pair of pistols; and their fears. 

As if Death were more dreadful by his dotir 
Of fire than water, spite of oaths and tears, 

Kept still aloof the crew, who, ere they sunk, 

Thought it would be becoming to die drunk. 

XXXVI. 

" Give us more grog," they cried, " for it will be 
All one an hour hence." Juan answer'd 
•' No : 

'T is true that death awaits both you and me, 
But let us die like men, not sink below 

Like brutes:" — ana thus his dangerous post 
kept he. 
And none liked to anticipate the blow ; 

And even Peririllo, his most reverend tutor, 

Was for some rum a disappointed suitor. 

XXXVII. 

The good old gentleman was quite aghast, 
And made a loud and pious lamentation ; 

Repented all his sins, and made a last 
Irrevocable vow of reformation ; 



Nothing should tempt him more (this peril pa*t 

To quit his academic occupation, 
In cloisters of the classic Salamanca. 
To lollow Juan's wake, like Sancho Fanca. 

XXXVIII. 

But now there came a flash of hope once more, 

Day broke, and the wind lull'd: the mast* 

were gone, [shore, 

The leak increased ; shoals round her, but no 

The vessel swam, yet still she held her own. 

They tried the pumps again, and though before 

Their desperate efforts seem'd all useless 

grown, 

A glimpse of sunshine set some hands to bale — 

The stronger pump'd, the weaker thrumm'd a 

sail. 

xx'xix. 
Under the vessel's keel the sail was past, 

And tor the moment it had some effect; 
But with a leak, and not a stick of mast, 

Nor rag of canvass, what could they expect? 
But still 't is best to struggle to the last, 

'T is never too late to be wholly wreck'd: 
And though 'tis true that man can only die 

once, 
"T is not so pleasant in the Gulf of Lyons. 



There winds and waves had hurl'd :hem, ai d 
fr mi thence. 

Without their will, they carried them away. 
For they were forced with steering to dispense, 

And never had as yet a quiet, day 
On which they might repose,or even commence 

A jurymast or rudder, or could say 
The ship would swim an hour, which, by good 

luck, 
Still swam — though not exactly like a duck. 

XLI. 

The wind, in fact, perhaps, was rather less, 
But the ship labour'd so, they scarce could 
hope 

To weather out much longer : the distress 
Was also great with which they had to cope 

For want of water, and their solid mess 
Was scant enough: in vain the telescope 

Was used — nor sail nor shore appear'd in sight, 

Nought but the heavy sea, and coming night. 

XI.II. 

Again the weather threaten 'd, — again blew 
A gale, and in the fore and alter hold 

Water appea-'d ; yet, though the people knew 
All this, the most were patient, and soin« 
bold. 



DON JUAN. 



Until the chains anr leathers were worn through 
Of all our pumps : — a wreck complete she 
10II d, 
At mercy of the waves, whose mercies are 
Like human beings during civil war. 



Then came the carpenter, at last, with tears 
In his rough eyes, and told the captain, he 

Could do no more : he was a man in years, 
And long had voyaged through many a 
stormy sea, 

And if he wept at length, they were not fears 
That made his eyelids as a woman's be, 

But he, poor fellow, had a wife and children, — 

Two things for dying people quite bewildering. 

xLiy. 
The ship was evidently settling now 

Fast by the head ; and, all distinction gone, 
Some went to prayers again, and made a vow 

Of candles to their saints — but there were 
none 
To pay them with ; and some look'd o'er the bow ; 

Some hoisted out the boats ; and there was one 
That begg'd Pedrillo for an absolution, 
Who told him to bedamn'd — in his confusion 

XLV. 

Some lash'd them in their hammocks ; some 
put on 

Their best clothes, as if going to a fair; 
Some cursed the day on which they saw the sun, 

And gnash'd their teeth, and, howling, tore 
their hair; 
And others went on as they had begun, 

Getting the boats out, being well aware, 
That a tiy?ht boat will live in a rough sea, 
Unless with breakers close beneath her lee. 



The worst of all was, that in their condition, 
Having been several days in great distress, 

'T was difficult to get out such provision 
A snow might render their long suffering less : 

Men, even when dying, dislike inanition. 
Their stock was damaged by the weather's 
stress : 

Two casks of biscuit, and a keg of butter, 

Were all that could be thrown into the cutter. 

XLVII. 

But in tha long-boat they contrived to stow 
Some pounds of bread, though injured by 
the wet ; 

Water, a twenty-gallon cask or so ; 
Six flasks of wine ; and they contrived to set 



A portion of their beef up from L«Iow, 

And with a piece of pork, moreover, met 
But scarce enough to serve them for a lira 
uheoii — [cheou 

Then there was rum, eight gallons in a pun- 

XLVIII. 

The other boats, the yawl and pinnate, had 
Been stove in the beginning of the gale ; 

And the long-boat's condition was but bad, 
As there were but two blankets for a sail. 

And one oar for a mast, which a young lad 
Threw in by good luck over the ship's rail; 

And two boats could not hold, far less be stored, 

To save one half the people then on board. 

XLIX. 

'T was twilight, and the sunless day went down 
Over the waste of waters ; like a veil, 

Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the 
frown 
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail. 

Thus to their hopeless eyes the night was shown. 
And grimly darkled o'er the faces pale. 

And the dim desolate deep- twelvedayshad Fear 

Been their familiar, and now Death was here. 

L. 

Some trial had been making at a raft, 
With little hope in such a rolling sea, 

Asortof thing at which one would have laugh'd, 
If any laughter at such times could be, 

Unless with people who too much have quaffd, 
And have a kind of wild and horrid glc, 

Half epileptical, and half hysterical : — 

Their preservation would have been a miracle. 

LI. 

At half-past eighto'clock,booms,hencoops,spars, 
And all things, for a chance, had been cast 
loose, 

That still could keep afloat the struggling tars, 
For yet hey strove, although of no great use : 

There was no light in heaven but a few stars. 
The boats put off o'ercrowded with their 
crews ; 

She save a heel, and then a lurch to port, 

And, going down head foremost — sunk, in short. 

LII. 

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell — 
Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the 
brave — 

Then some leap'd overboard with dreadful yell, 
As eager to anticipate their grave ; 

And the sea yawn'd around hei like a hell, 
And down she suck'd with her the whir'ing 
wave. 

Like one who grapples with his enemy, 

And strive? to sn-ajisrle him before he die 



344 



DON JUAN. 



And first one universal shriek there rush'd, 
Louder than the Joud ocean, like a crash 

Of echoing thunder; and then all was hush'd, 
Save the wild wind and the remorseless dash 

Of billows ; but at intervals there gush'd, 
Accompanied with a convulsive splash, 

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry 

Of some strong swimmer in his agony. 



The boats, as stated, had got off before, 
And in them crowded several of the crew ; 

And yet their present hope was hardly more 
Than what it had been, for so strong it blew, 

There was slight chance of reaching any shore ; 
And then they were too many,though so few — 

Nine in the cutter, thirty in the boat, 

Were counted in them when they got afloat 



All the rest perish'd ; near two hundred souls 
Had left their bodies; and what's worse, alas ! 

When over Catholics the ocean rolls, 

They must wait several weeks before amass 

Takes off one peck of purgatorial coals, 

Because, till people know what's come to pass, 

They won't lay out their money on the dead — 

It costs three francs for every mass that 'ssaid. 

LVI. 

Juai- got into the long-boat, and there 
Contrived to help Pedrillo to a place ; 

It seem'd as if they had exchanged their care, 
For Juan wore, the magisterial face 

Which courage gives, while poor Pedrillo'spair 
Of eyes were crying for their owner's case : 

B ntista, though, (a name call'd shortly Tita) 

Was lost by getting at some aqua-vita. 



Pedro, his valet, too, he tried to save, 

But the same cause, conducive to his loss, 

Left him so drunk, he jump' d into the wave, 
As o er the cutter's edge he tried to cross, 

i.nd so he found a wine-and-watery grave ; 
They could not rescue him although so close, 

Because the sea ran higher every minute, 

And for the boat — the crew kept crowding in it. 

LVIII. 

A small old spaniel, — which had been Don 
Jose's, [think, 

His father's, whom he loved, as ye may 
For on such things the memory reposes 

With tenderness — stood howling on the 
brink, 



Knowing, (dogs have such intellectual noses !. 

No doubt, the vessel was about to smlc : 
And Juan caught him up, and ere he stepp'd 
Off, threw him in, then after him he leap'd. 



He also stuff 'd his money where he could 
About his person, and Pedrillo's too, 

Who let him do, in fact, whate'er he would, 
Not knowing what himself to say, or do, 

As every rising wave his dread renew'd ; 
But Juan, trusting they might still getthrough, 

And deeming there were remedies for any ill, 

Thus re-embark'd his tutor and his spaniel. 



'T was a rough night, and blew so stiffly yet, 

That the sail was becalm'd between the 

seas, [set, 

Though on the wave's high top too much to 

They dared not take it in for all the breeze 

Each sea curl'd o'er the stern, and kept them 

wet. [ease, 

And made them bale without a moment's 

So that themselves as well as hopes were 

damp'd, 
And the poor little cutter quickly swamp'd. 

LXI. 

Nine souls more went in her: the long-boa* 
still 

Kept above water, with an oar for mast, 
Two blankets stitch'd together, answering il] 

Instead of sail, were to the oar made fast; 
Though every wave roll'd menacing to fill. 

And present peril all before surpass'd, 
They grieved for those who perish'd with the 

cutter, 
And also for the biscuit-casks and butter. 



The sun rose red and fiery, a sure sign 
Of the continuance of the gale: to run 

Before the sea until it should grow fine, 
Was all that for the present could be done . 

A few tea-spoonfuls of their rum and wine 
Were served out to the people, who begun 

To faint, and damaged bread wet through the 
bags, 

And most of them had little c'oihesbut rags. 

LXIII. 

They counted thirty, crowded in a space 
Which left scarce room for motion or exer- 
tion ; 
They did their best to modify their case, 
One half sate up, though numb'd with the 
i miners' on, 



DON JUAN. 



345 



While t other half were laid down in their 

place, 
At watch and walch ; thus, shivering like 

the tertian 
Ague in its cold (it, they fiU'd their boat, 
With nothing but the sky lor a great coat. 

LXIV. 

T is very certain the desire of life 

Prolongs it: this is obvious to physicians, 

When patients, neither plagued with friends 
nor wife, 
Survive through very desperate conditions, 
3ecause they still can hope, nor shines the 
knife 
Nor shears of Atropos before their visions : 
Despair of all recovery spoils longevity, 
And makes men's miseries of alarming brevity. 

LXV. 

Yis said that persons living on annuities 
Are longer lived than others, — God knows 
why, 

Unless to plague the grantors, — yet so true it is, 
That some, I really think, do never die: 

Of any creditors the worst a Jew it is, 

And that 's their mode of furnishing supply. 

Tn my young days they lent me cash that way, 

Which I found very troublesome to pay. 

LXVt. 

'T is thus with people in an open boat, 
They live upon the love of life, and bear 

More than can be believed, or even thought, 
And stand like rocks the tempest's wear and 
tear ; 

And hardship still has been the sailor's lot, 
Since Noah's ark went cruising here and 
there ; 

She had a curious crew as well as cargo, 

Like the first old Greek privateer, the Argo. 

LXVII. 

But man is a carnivorous production, [day; 

And must have meals, at least one meal a 
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, 

But, like theshark and tiger, must have prey ; 
Although his anatomical construction 

Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, 
v'our labouring people think beyond all ques- 
tion, 
Beef, veal, and mutton, better for digestion. 

LXVIII. 

And thus it was with this our hapless crew; 

For on the third day there came on a calm, 
And though at first their strength it might 
renew, 

•Viui lying on their weariness like balm 



Lull'd them like turtles sleeping on the blue 

Of ocean, when they woke they felt a qualm 
And fell all ravenously on their provision. 
Instead of hoarding it with due precision 



The consequence was easily foreseen — 
They ate up all they had, and drank their 
wine, 
In spite of all remonstrances, and then 

On what, in fact, next day were they to dine? 

They hoped the wind would rise, these foolish 

men ! [fine. 

And carry them to shore; these hopes were 

But as they had but one oar, and that brittle, 

It would have been more wise to save thcii 

victual. 

LXX. 

The fourth day came, but not a breath of air 
And Ocean slumber'd like an unwean'e' 
child ; 
The fifth day, and their boat lay floating there 
The sea and sky were blue, and clear, and 
mild — 
With their one oar (I wish they had had a pah* 
What could they do? and hunger's rage 
grew wild : 
So Juan's spaniel, spite of his entreating, 
Waskill'd, andportion'd out for present eating. 



On the sixth day they fed upon his hide, 
And Juan, who Lad still refused, because 

The creature was his father's dog that died 
Now feeling all the vulture in his jaws, 

With some remorse received (though first do 
nied) 
As a great favour one of the fore-paws. 

Which he divided with Pedrillo, who 

Devour' d it, longing for the other too. 

X.XXII. 

The seventh day, and no wind — the burning 
sun [sea, 

Blister'd and scorch'd, and, stagnant on the 
They lay like carcasses ; and hope was none, 
Save in the breeze that came not; savagely 
They glared upon each other — all was done, 
Water, and \*ine, and food, — and you mighl 
see 
The longings of the cannibal arise 
(Although they spoke not) in their wolfisb 
eyes 



346 



DON JUAN. 



1.XXIJI. 

4t iength one whisper 'd his companion, who 
Whisper'd another, and thus it went round, 

And then into a hoarser murmur grew, 

An ominous, and wild, and despeiate sound ; 

And when his comrade's thought each sufferer 

knew, [he found: 

'T was but his own, suppress'd till now, 

And oat they spoke of lots for flesh and blood, 

And who should die to be his fellow's food. 

LXXIV. 

But ere they came to this, they that day shared 
Some leathern caps, and what remain' d of 
shoes ; 

And then they look'd around them, and de- 
spair'd, 
And none to be the sacrifice would choose; 

At length the lots were torn up, and prepared, 
But of materials that much shock the Muse — 

Having no paper, lor the want of better, 

They took by force from Juan Julia's letter. 

LXXV. 

The lots were made, and mark'd, and mix'd, 
and handed, 

In silent horror, and their distribution 
Lull'd even the savagehunger which demanded, 

Like the Promethean vulture, this pollution ; 
None in particular had sought or plann'd it, 

'T was nature gnaw'd them to this resolution, 
By which none were permitted to be neuter — 
And the lot fell on Juan's luckless tutor. 

LXXVI. 

He but requested to be bled to death • 

The surgeon had his instruments, and bled 

Pedrillo, and so gently ebb d his breath, 
You hardly could perceive when he was 
dead. 

Hs died as born, a Catholic in faith, 

Like most in the belief in which they 're 
bred, 

And first a little crucifix he kiss'd, 

And then held out his jugular and wrist. 

LXXVII. 

The surgeon, as there was no other fee, 

Had his first choice of morsels for hispairs; 

But being thirstier at the moment, he 

Preferr'd a draught from the fast-flowing 
veins : 

Part •" as Mvided, part thrown in the sea, 
Aud sucn things as the entrails and the 
brains billow — 

Rfgaltni two sharks, who follow d o'er the 

r l tie sall-irs ate t. » rest of poor Pedrillo. 



Lxxrni. 

The sailors ate him, all save three or for r. 

Who were not quite so fond of animal 4 'ood 
To these was added Juan, who, before 

Refusing his own spaniel, hardly could 
Feel now his appetite increased much more ■ 

'T was not to be expected that he should, 
Even in extremity of their disaster, 
Dine with them on his pastor and his master 

r.xxix. 
Twas better that he did not; for, in fact, 

The consequence was awful in the extreme, 
For they, who were most ravenous in the act 

Went raging mad — Lord ! how they did 

blaspheme ! [rack'd. 

And foam and roll, with strange convulsions 

Drinking salt-water like a mountain stream, 
Tearing, and grinning, howling, screeching, 

swearing, 
And, with hysena-laughter. died despairing. 

LXXX. 

Their numbers were much thinn'd by this in 
fliction, [knows 

And all the rest were thin enough, Heaven 
And some of them had lost their recollection, 

Happier than they who still perceived theit 
woes. 
But others ponder'd on a new dissection, 

As if not warn'd sufficiently by those 
Who had already perish'd, suffering madly, 
For having used their appetites so sadly. 

LXXXI. 

And next they thought upon the master's mate, 
A c fattest; but he saved himself, because, 

Besides being much averse from such a fate, 
There were some other reasons : the first was 

He had been rather indisposed of *ate : 

And that which chiefly proved his saving 
clause, 

Was a small present made to him at Cadiz, 

By general subscription of the ladies. 

LXXXII. 

Of poor Pedrillo something still remain'd. 

But was used sparingly, — some were afrai 1 
And others still their appetites constraint 

Or but at times a little supper made ; 
All except Juan, who throughout abstain'd, 

Chewing a piece of bamboo, and some lead 
At length they caught two boobies, and anodd) 
And then they left off eating the dead body. 

IXXXI1I. 

And if Pedrillo's fate should shocking be, 
Remember Ugolino condescends 

To eat the head of his arch-enemy 
The moment after he politely ends 



DON JUAN. 



347 



His tale : it* foes he food in hell, at sea 

'T is surely fair to dine upon our friends, 
When shipwreck's short allowance grows too 

scanty, 
Without being much more horrible than Dante. 



And the same night there fell ashowei of rain, 
For which their mouths gaped, like the 
cracks of earth [pain, 

When dried to summer dust; till taught by 
Men really know not what good water 's 
worth ; 
[f you had been in Turkey or in Spain, 
Or with a famish'd boat's-crevv had your 
berth, 
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, [well. 
You 'd wish yourself where Truth is — in a 

LXXXV. 

It pour'd down torrents, but they were no 
richer 
Until they found a ragged piece of sheet, 
Which served them as a sort of spongy pitcher, 
And when they deem'd its moisture was 
complete, 
Fhev wrung it out, and though a thirsty ditcher 
Might not have thought the scanty draught 
so sweet 
As a full pot of porter, to their thinking 
They ne'er till now had known the joys of 
drinking. 

LXXXVI. 

And their baked lips, with many a bloody crack, 

Suck'd in the moisture, which like nectar 

stream d ; [were black, 

Their throats were ovens, their swoln tongues 
Asthe rich man's in hell, who vainly scream' d 

' r o beg the beggar, who could not rain back 
A drop of dew, when every drop had seem'd 

To taste of heaven — If this be true, indeed, 

Some Christians have a comfortable creed. 

LXXXV 1 1. 

There were two fathers in this ghastly crew, 
And with them their two sons, of whom the 
one 

Was more robust and hardy to the view, 
But he died early ; and when he was gone, 

His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw 
One glance at him, and said, " Heaven's will 
be done ! 

I ""an do nothing," and ne saw him thrown 

Into the deep without a tear or groan. 



LXXXV III. 

The other father had a weaklier child, 
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate : 

But the boy bore up long, and with a mild 
And patient spirit held aloof his fate ; 

Little he said, and now and then he smiled, 
As if to win a part from off the weight 

He saw increasing on his father's heart. 

With the deep deadly thought, that they mus. 
part. 

LXXXIX. 

And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised 
His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam 

From his pale lips, and ever on him gaztd, 
And when the wisn j-ibr shower at length 
was come, [glazed, 

4.nd the boy's eyes, which the dull film halt 
Brighten'd.andforamomentseem'd to roam. 

He squeezed from out a rag some drops of raid 

Into his dying child's mouth — but in vain. 



The boy expired — the father held the clay, 
And look'd upon it long, and when at last 

Death left no doubt, and the dead burthen lay 
Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were 
past, 

He watch'd it wistfully, until away 

'T was borne by the rude wave wherein 
't was cast : [shivering, 

Then he himself sunk down all dumb and 

And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering, 



Now overhead a rainbow, bursting through 
The scattering clouds, shone, spanning the 
dark sea, 

Resting us Dngni base on the quivering blue; 
And ail within ts arch appear'd to be 

Clearer than that without, and its wide hue 
Wax'd broad and waving, like a banner free, 

Then changedliketoabow that's bent, and then 

Forsook the dim eyes of these shipwreck' d men, 

XCII. 

It changed, of ^ourse ; a heavenly cameleon, 
The airy child of vapour and the sun, 

Brought forth in purple, cradled in vermilion, 
Baptized in molten gold, and swathed in dun, 

Glittering like crescents o'er a Turk's pavilion, 
And blending every colour into one, 

r ust like a black eye in a recent scuffle 

Forsometiraeswemustbox without the nvifflei 



348 



DON JUAN. 



XCTII. 

Our shipwreck'd seamen thought It a good 
omen — 

It is as well to think so, now and then ; 
T was an old custom of the Greek and Roman, 

And may become of great advantage when 
Folks are discouraged ; and most surely no men 

Bad greate- need to nerve themselves again 
Than these, and so this rainbow look'd like 

hope — 
Quite a celestial kaleidoscope. 



About this time a beautiful white bird, 
Webfooted, not unlike a dove in size 

Ami plumage (probably it might have err'd 
Upon its course), pass'd oft before their eyes, 

And tried to perch, although it saw and heard 
The men within the boat, and in this guise 

It came and went, and rlutter'd round them till 

Night fell: — this seem'd a better omen still. 



xcvm. 
And then of these some part burst into .ears, 

And others, looking with a stupid stare, 
Could not yet separate their hopes from fears 

And seem'd as if they had no further care; 
While a few pray'd — (the first time for some 
years; — 

And at the bottom of the boat three were 
Asleep : they shook them by thehand and head, 
And tried to awaken them, but ft. and them dead 

XCIX 

The day before, fast sleeping on the water, 
They found a turtle of the hawk's-bill kind. 

And by good fortune, gliding softly, caught her 
Which yielded a day's life, and to their mine' 

Proved even still a more nutritious matter, 
Because it left encouragement behind 

They thought that in such perils, more thai, 
chance 

Had sent them this for their deliverance. 



But in this case I also must remark, 

'T was well this bird of promise did not perch, 

Because the tackle of our shatter 'd bark 
Was not so safe for roosting as a church ; 

And had it been the dove from Noah's ark, 
Returning there from her successful search, 

Which in their way thatmoment chanced to fall, 

They would have eat her, olive-branch and all. 1 - 



The land appear'd a high and rocky coast, 
And higher grew the mountains as they drew 

Set by a current, toward it : they were lost 
In various conjectures, lor none knew 

To what part of the earth they had been tost 
So changeable had been the winds thatblew , 

Some thought it was Mount Mtna, some the 
highlands 

Of Candia, Cyprus, Rhodes, or other islands. 



With twilight it again came on to blow, 
But not with violence ; the stars shone out, 

The boat made way ; yet now they were, so low, 

They knew not where nor what they were 

'about; ["No!" 

Some fancied they saw land, and some said 

The frequent log-banks gave them cause to 

doubt— Lguns, 

Som? swore lhat they heard breakers, others 

And all mistook about the latter once 

XCTII 

As morning broke, the light wind died away, 
When he who had the watch sung out and 
swore. 

If twas not land that rose with the sun's ray, 
He wish'dthatlandhe never might see more; 

And the rest rubb'd their eyes and saw a bay, 
Or thought they saw, and shaped their course 
for shore ; 

For shore it was, and gradually grew 

Distinct, and high, and palpable to view. 



Meantime the current, with a rising gale. 

Still set them onwards to the welcome shore, 
Like Charou's bark of spectre*:, dull and pale : 

Their living freight was now reduced to four 
And three dead, whom their strength could no; 
avail 

To heave into the deep with those before, 
Thou-hthe two sharks still follow'd them, and 

dash'd 
The spray into their faces as they splash'd. 

en. 

Famine, despair, cold, thirst, and heat, had 
done [_ lhem ^o 

Their work on them by turns, and thinn'd 
Such things a mother had not known her son 

Amidst the skeletons of that gaunt crew; 
By uight chill'd, by day scorch'd, thus one by 
one 

Thev perish'd, until wither'd to these few, 
But chiefly by a species of self-slaughter, 
In washing down Pedrillo with sal', water. 



DON JUAN. 



349 



As they drew nigh trie land, wh ch now was see. 

Unequal in its aspect here and there, 
They t'elt the freshness of its growing green, 

That waved in forest-tops, and smooth'd th„ 
air, 
And fell upon their glazed eyes like a screen 

From glistening waves, and skies so hot and 
bare — 
iiovaly seem'd any object that should sweep 
Away the vast, salt, dread, eternal deep. 

civ. 
The shore look'd wild, without atrace of man, 

And girt by formidable waves ; but they 
Were mad for land, and thus their course they 
ran, 

Though right ahead the roaring breakers lay : 
A reef between them also now began 

To show its boiling surf and bounding spray, 
But rinding no place for their landing better, 
They ran the boat for shore, — and overset her. 

cv, 
But in his native stream, the Guadalquivir, 

Juan to lave his youthful limbs was wont; 
And having learnt to swim in that sweet river, 

Hau often turn'd the art to some account: 
A better swimmer you could scarce see ever, 

He could, perhaps,have pass'd the Hellespont, 
As once (a teat on which ourselves we prided) 
Leander, Mr. Ekenhead. and I did. 

cvi. 

So here, though faint, emaciated, and stark, 
Hebuoy'dhis boyish limbs, and strove to ply 

With the quick wave, and gain, ere it was dark, 
The beach whichlay before him,high and dry : 

The greatest danger here was I'rnra a shark, 
That carried off* his neighbour by the thigh ; 

As for the other two, they could not swim, 

So nobody arrived on shore but him. 

evil. 

Nor yet had he arrived but for the oar, 

Which, providentially for him, was wash'd 

Just as his feeble arms -ould strike no more, 
And the hard wa\e Verwhelmed him as 
'twas dash'd 

Within his grasp : he clung to it, and sore 
The waters beat while he thereto was lash'd ; 

A? last, with swimming, wading, scrambling, he 

Rou'd on the beach, half-senseless, from the sea: 

cvm. 
There, breathless, with hisdiggingnailshe clung 

Fast to the sand, lest the returning wave, 
From whose reluctant roar his life he wrung, 

Should suck him back to her insatiate grav e : 



And there he lay, full length, where he was flung. 

Before the entrance of a cliff-worn cave, 
With just enough of life to feel its pain, 
And deem that it was saved, perhaps in vain 

cix. 
With slow and staggering effort he arose, 

But sunk again upon his bleeding knee 
And quivering hand; and then he look'd forthon* 

Who long had been his mates upon the mju : 
But none of them appear'd to share his woes:. 

Save one,a corpse, from out the famish'd thre*. 
Who died two days before, ana now hadfouuo 
An unknown barren beach for burial grou.vi 

ex. 

And as he gazed, his dizzy brain spun fan, 
And down he sunk ; and as he sunk, the sand 

Swam round andround.and all his senses pass'd • 
He fell upon his side, and his stretch'd hann 

Droop'd dripping on the oar (their jury-mast), 
And, like a wither d lily, on the land 

His slender frame and pallid aspect lay 

As fair a thing as e'er was form d of clay. 

CXI. 

How long in this damp trance young Juan lav 
He knew not, for the earth was gone for 
him, 

And Time had nothing more of night nor day 
For his congealing blood, and senses dim ; 

And how this heavy faintness pass'd away 
He knew not, till each painful pulse and limb 

And tingling vein, seem'd thvobbingbackto life 

For Death, though vanquish'd, still retired witi 
strife. 

CXII. 

His eyes he open'd, shut, again unclosed, 
For all was doubt and dizziness; bethought 

He still was in the boat, and had but dozed. 
And felt again with his despair o'erwrought 

And wish'd it death in which he had reposcd : 
And then once more his feelings back were 
brought, 

And slowly by his swimming eyes was seen 

A lovely female face of seventeen. 

CXIII. 

'T was bending close o'er his, and the smal 
mouth 

Seem'd almost prying into his for breath ; 
And charing him, the soft warm handof youtf 

Recall'd his answering spirits back front 
death ; 
And, bathing his chill temples, tried to sooihe 

Each puise to animation, till beneath 
Its gentle touch and trembling care, a sigh 
To these kind efforts made a low replj . 



350 



DON JUAN. 



CXIV. 

Then was tn? cordial pour'd, and mantle flung 

Around his scarce-clad limos ; and the fair 

arm [hung; 

Raised higher the faint head which o'er it 

And her transparent cheek, all pure and 

warm, [wrung 

Pillow'd his death-like forehead; then she 

His dewy curls, long drench'd by every 

«t.orm ; [drew 

And watch' d with eagerness each throb that 

A sigh from his heaved bosom — and hers, too. 

_xv. 
And lifting him with care into the cave. 

The gentle girl, and her attendant, — one 
Young, yet her elder, and of brow less grave, 

And more robust of figure, — then begun 
To kindle fire, and as the new flames gave 
Light to the rocks that roof 'd them, which 
the sun 
Had never seen, the maid, or whatsoe'er 
She was, apoear'd distinct, and tall, and fair. 

CXVI. 

Her brow was overhung with coins of gold, 
That sparkled o'er the auburn of her hair, 
Her clustering hair, whose longer locks were 
roil'd [were 

In braids behind ; and though her stature 
Even of the highest for a female mould, 
They nearly reach'd her heel ; and in her 
"air [mand, 

There was a something which bespoke com- 
As one who was a lady in the land 

cxvu. 
Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes 
Were, black as death, their lashes the same 
hue, 
Of downcast length, in whose silk shadow lies 

Deepest attraction ; for when to the view 

Forth from its raven fringe the full glance flies, 

Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow 

flew; [length, 

T is as the snake late coil'd, who pours his 

And hurls at onr.e his venom and his strength. 

cxvm. 
Her brow was white and low, her cheek's 
pure dye 
Like twilight rosy still with the set sun ; 
Short upper lip — sweet lips! that make us 
sigh 
Ever to have seen such ; for she was one 
I'it for the model of a statuary, 

(A race of mere impostors, when all's done — 
* ve seen much finer women, ripe and real, 
"*han all the nonsense of their stone ideal). 



CXIX. 

I '11 tell you why I say so, Lc 't is just 

One should not rail without a decent cause 
There was an Irish lady, to whose bust 

I ne'er saw justice done, and yet she was 
A frequent model ; and if e'er she must 
Yield to stern Time and Nature's wrinklins 
laws, 
They will destroy a face which mortal thought 
Ne'er compass'd. nor less mortal chisel wrought. 

exx. 
And such was she, the lady of the cave : 
Her dress was very different from the 
Spanish, 
Simpler, and yet of colours not so grave : 
For, as you know, the Spanish women ba- 
nish [wavo 
Bright hues when out of doors, and yet, while 
Around them (what I hope will never vanisk" 
The basquina and the mantilla, they 
'Seem at the same time mystical and gay. 

cxxi. 
But with our damsel this was not the case 

Her dress was many-coloured, finely spun 
Her locks curl'd negligently round her face. 
But through them gold and gems profusely 
shone : 
Her girdle sparkled, and the richest lace 
Flow'd in her veil, and many a precious 
stone [shocking, 

Flash'd on her little hand ; but, what was 
Her small snow feet had slippers, but no 
stocking. 

CXXII 

The other female's dress was not unlike, 

But of inferior materials: she 
Had not so many ornaments to strike, 

Her hair had silver only, bound to be 
Her dowry ; and her veil, in form alike, 
Was coarser : and her air, though firm, less 
free ; 
Her hair was thicker, but less long; her eye* 
As black, but quicker, and of smaller size. 

exxm. 
And these two tended him, and cheer d 'dim 
both [attentions. 

With food and raiment, and those soft 
Which are — (as I must own) — of female 
growth, 
And have ten thousand delicate inventions: 
They made a most superior mess of broth, 

A thing which poesy but seldom mentions. 
But the best dish that e'er was cook'n sium 

Homer's 
Achilles oTderd dinner for new corner* 



DON JUAN. 



35J 



CXXIV. 

\ '\\ *- you who they were, this female pair, 

Lev. they should seem princesses in disguise ; 
Besides, I hate all mystery, and that air 

Of clap-trap, which your recent poets prize, 
And so, in short, the girls they ready were 

They shall appear before your curious eyes, 
Mistress and maid ; the first was only daughter 
Of an old mau, who lived upon the water. 

exxv. 
A fisherman he had been in his youth. 

And still a sort of fisherman was he ; 
But. other speculations were, in sooth, 

Added to his connection with the sea, 
Perhaps not so respectable, in truth : 

A little smuggling, and some piracy, 
Left him, at last, the sole of many masters 
Of an ill-gotten million of piastres. 

cxxvi. 
A fisher, therefore, was he, — though of men, 

Like Peter the Apostle, — and he fish'd 
For wandering merchant-vessels, now and 
then, [wish'd ; 

And sometimes caught as many as he 
The cargoes he confiscated, and gain 

He sought in the slave-market too, and 
dish'd 
Full many a morsel for that Turkish trade, 
Bj which, no doubt, a good deal maybe ncade, 

CXXVI I. 

He was a Greek, and on his isle had built 
(One of the wild and smaller Cyclades) 

A very handsome house from out his guilt, 
And there he lived exceedingly at case ; 

Heaven knows what cash he got or blood he 
spilt, 
A sad old fellow was he, if you please ; 

But this I know, it was a spacious building, 

Full of barbaric carving, paint, and gilding. 

CXXVIII. 

He had an only daughter, call'd Haidee, 
The greatest heiress of the Eastern Isles; 

Besides, so very beautiful was she, 

Her dowry was as nothing to he* smiles : 

Still in her teens, and like a lovelv uee, 
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles 

Rejected several suitors, just to learn 

How to accept a better in his turn. 

exxix. 
And walking out upon the beach, below 
The cliff, towards sunset, on that day she 
found, 
Insensible, — not dead, but nearly so, — 

l>nn Juan.almost famish'd. and halfdrown'd; 



But being naked, she was shoes a.^ou know 
Yet deem'i herself in common pity bouuii 
As far as in her lay, " to take him in, 
A stranger" dying, with so white a skin. 

exxx. 

But taking him into her father's house 
Was not exactly the best way to save. 

But like conveying to the cat the mouse, 
Or people in a trance into their grave . 

Because the good old man had so much "/«*, 
Unlike the honest Arab thieves so brave, 

He would have hospitably cured the strange* 

And sold him instantly when out of danger. 

CXXXI. 

And therefore, with her ma id, she thought it be* 
(A virgin always on her maid relies) 

To place him in the cave for present rest : 
And when, at last, he open'd his black eyes 

Their charity increased about their gue-st;" 
And their compassion grew to such a size. 

It open*d half the turnpike-gates to heaven — 

(St. Paul says, 'tis the toll which must be given. 

CXXXII. 

. They made a fire, — but such a fire as they 

Upon the moment could contrive with sucb 
Materials as were cast up round the bav, — 

Soroebrokenplanks.and oars, that to the toucb 
Were nearly tinder, since so long they lay 

A mast was almost crumbled to a crutch ; 
But, by God's grace, here wrecks were in auca 

plenty, 
That there was fuel to have furnish 'd twenty. 

CXXXI II. 

He had a bed of furs, and a pelisse. 

For Haidee stripp'd her sables off to make 

His couch ; and, that he might be more at ease, 
And warm, in case by chance he should 
awake, 

They also gave a petticoat apiece, 

She and her maid, — and promised by day 
break 

To pay him a fi-psh visit, with a dish 

For breakfast, of eggs, corfee, bread, and fish 

rxxxiv. 

And thus they left him to his lone repose 
Juan slept like a top, or like the dead. 

Who sleep at last, perhaps (God only knows) 
Just for the present ; and in his hili'd h«_ad 

Not even a vision of his former woes 

Throbb'd in accursed dreams, Mhich some 
times spread 

Unwelcome visions of our former years 

Till the eye, cheated, opens thick with tears 



352 



DON JUAN. 



cxxxv. 

Young Juan s.epc all dreamless: — but the 
maid, 

Who srnooth'd his pillow, as she left the den 
Look'd back upon him, and a moment stay'd, 

And turn'd, believing that he call'd again. 

He slumber'd ; yet she thought, at least she 

said [and pen), 

(The heart will slip, even as the tongue 
He had pronounced her name — but she forgot 
That at this moment Juan knew it not. 

CXXXVI. 

And pensive to her father's house she went, 
Enjoining silence strict to Zoe, who 

Better than her knew what, in fact, she meant, 
She being wi^er by a year or two : 

A. year or two 's an age when rightly spent, 
And Zoe spent hers, as most women do, 

In gaining all thai useful sort of knowledge, 

Which isacquired in Nature's good old college. 



I say, the sun is a most glorious sight, 
I 've seen him rise full oft, indeed of lats 

I have sat up on purpose all the night, 

Which hastens, as physicians say, one's fa to 

And so all ye, who would be in the right 
In health and purse 44 , begin your day w 
date [score 

From daybreak, and when eoffin'd at lour- 

Engrave upon the plate, /ou rose at four. 46 



And Haidee met the morning face to face ; 

Her own was freshest, though a feverish 

flush [race 

Had dyed it with the headlong blood, whose 

From heart to'cheek is curb'd into a blu.^h, 
Like to a torrent which a mountain's ba>>e, 

That overpowers some Alpine river's rush, 
Checks to a lake, whose waves in circles spread; 
Or the Ked Sea — but the sea is not red. 46 



The morn broke, and found Juan slumbering 
still 

Fast in his cave, and nothing clash'd upon ' 
His rest ; the rushing of the neighbouring rill, 

And the young beams of the excluded sun, 
Troubled him not, and he might sleep his fill; 

And need he had of slumber yet, for none 
FJad sufi'er'd more — his hardships were com- 
parative [tive." 43 
To those related in my grand-dad's " Narra- 

cxxxviii. 
Not so Haidee : she sadly toss'd and tumbled,- 
And started from her sleep, and, turning o'er, 
Dream'd of a thousand wrecks, o'er which she 
stumbled, 
And handsome corpses strew'd upon the shore; 
And woke her maid so early that she grumbled, 
And call'd her father's old slaves up, who 
swore [Greek — 

In several oaths — Armenian, Turk, and 
They knew not what to think of such a freak. 

cxxxix. 

But up she got, and up she made them get, 
With some pretence about the sun, that 
makes 

Sweet skies just when he rises, or is set ; 
And 't is, no doubt, a sight to see when 
breaks [wet 

Bright Phoebus, while the mountains still are 
With mist, and every bird with him awakes. 

And night is tiung off like a mourning suit 

Worn for a husband, — or some other brute. 



And down the cliff the island virgin came, 
And near the cave her quick light footsteps 
drew, [flame, 

While the sun smiled on her with his first 
And young Aurora kiss'd her lips with dew, 

Taking her for a sister; just the same [two, 
Mistake you would have made on seeing the 

Although the mortal, quite as fresh and fair, 

Had all the advantage, too, of not being air 



And when into the cavern Haidee stepp'd 
All timidly, yet rapidly, she saw 

That like an infant Juan sweetly slept; 
And then she stopp'd, and stood as if in aw; 

(For sleep is awful), and on tiptoe crept 

And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, 

Should reach his blood, then o'er him still as 
death [drawn breath 

Bent, with hush'd lips, that drunk his scarce 



And thus like to an angel o'er the dying 
Who die in righteousness, she lean'd ; and 
there 

AH tranquilly the shipwreck'd boy was lying, 
As o'er him lay the calm and stirless air: 

But Zoe the meantime some eggs was livings 
Since, after all, no doubt the youthful pair 

Must breakfast, and betimes — lest they should 
ask it, 

She drew out her provision from the basket. 



DON JUAN. 



353 



CXLV. 

She knew that the best, feelings must have 
victual, [giybej 

And that a shipwreck'd youth would hun- 
Bcsides, being less in love, she yawn'd a little, 
And felt her veins chill'd by the neighbour- 
ing sea ; 
And so, she cook'd their breakfast to a tittle; 

I can't say that she gave them any tea, 
But there were eggs, fruit, coffee, bread, fish, 

honey, 
ft r ith Scio wine, — and all for love, not money. 

CXLVI. 

fcnd Zoe, when the eggs were ready, and 
The coffee made, would fain have waken'd 
Jiiar. , [hand, 

But Haidee stopp'd her with her quick small 
And without word, a sign her finger drew on 
Her lip, which Zoe needs must understand ; 
And, the first breakfast spoilt, prepared a 
new one, 
Because her mistress would not let her break 
That sleep which seem'd as it would ne er 
awake. 

CXLVI I. 

For still he lay. and on his thin worn cheek 
A purple hectic play'd like dying day 

On the snow-tops of distant hills; the streak 
Of sufferance yet upon his forehead lay. 

Where the blue veins look'd shadowy, shrunk, 

and weak ; [~ s p™y» 

And his black curls were dewy with the 

Which weigh'd upon them yet, all damp and 
salt, 

Mix'd with the stony vapours of the vault. 



And she bent o'er him, and he lay beneath, 
Hush'd as the babe upon its mother's breast, 

Droop'd as the willow when no winds can 
breathe, 
Lull'd like the depth of ocean when at rest. 

Fair as the crowning rose of the whole wreath, 
Soft as the callow cygnet in its nest ; 

In short, he was a very pretty fellow. 

Although his woes had turn'd him rather 
yellow. 

CXLIX. 

He woke and gazed, and would have slept 
again, [bade 

But the fair face which met his eye.« for- 
Thosr eyes to close, though weariness and pain 

Had further sleep a further pleasure made ; 



For woman's face was never form'd in vain 

For Juan, so that even when he pray'd 
He tiim'd from grisly saints, and martyrs hairy 
To the sweet portraits of the Virgin Mary. 

CL. 

And thus upon his elbow he arose. 

And look'd upon the lady, in whose cheek 

The pale contended with the purple rose, 
As with an effort she began to speak ; 

Her eyes were eloquent, her words would pose., 
Although she told him, in good modem 
Greek, 

With an Ionian accent, low and sweet, 

That he was faint, and must not talk, but cat, 

CLI 

Now Juan could not understand a word, 
Being no Grecian ; but he had an ear, 

And her voice was the warble of a bird. 
So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear. 

That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard ; 
The sort of sound we echo with a tear, 

Without knowing why — an overpowering tone. 

Whence Melody descends as from a throne 

CLII. 

And Juan gazed as one who is awoke 
By a distant organ, doubting if he he 

Not yet a dreamer, till the spell is broke 
By the watchman, or some such reality, 

Or by one's early valet's cursed knock ; 
At least it is a heavy sound to me, 

Who like a morning slumber — for the night 

Shows stars and women in a better light. 

CLIII. 

And Juan, too, was help'd out from his dream. 
Or sleep, or whatsoe'er it was. by feeling 

A most prodigious appetite : the steam 
Of Zoe's cookery no doubt was stealing 

Upon his senses, and the kindling beam 
Of the new fire, which Zoe kept up, kneeling, 

To stir her viands t made him quite awake 

And long for food, but chiefly a beef-steak. 

CLIV. 

But beef is rare within these oxless isles ; 
Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid 
and mutton ; 
And, when a holiday upon them smiles, 
A joint upon their oarbarous spits they put 
on : 
But this occurs but seldom, between whiles, 
For some of these, are rocks with scarce a 
hut on. 
Others are fair and fertile, amonp which 
This, though not large, was one of the HK»-f 
rich. 

2± 2A 



354 



DON JUAN. 



I say that beef is rare, and can't help thinking 
That the old fable of the Minotaur — 

From which our modern morals, rightly shrink- 
ing, 
Condemn the royal lady's taste who wore 
cow's shape for a mask — was only (sinking 
The allegory) a mere type, no more, 

That Pasiphae promoted breeding cattle, 

To make the Cretans bloodier in battle. 

CLVI. 

For we all know that English people are 
Fed upon beef — I won't say much of beer, 

Because 't is liquor only, and being far 

From this my subject, has no business here; 

We know, too, ihey are very fond of war, 
A pleasure — like all pleasures— rather dear ; 

So were the Cretans— from which I infer, 

That beef and battles both were owing to her. 



But to resume. The languid Jnan raised 
His head upon his elbow, and he saw 

A sight on which he had not lately gazed, 
As all his latter meals had been quite raw, 

Three or four things, for which the Lord he 
praised, 
And, feeling still the famish'd vulture gnaw, 

He fell upon whate'er was orTer'd, like 

A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike. 

CLVIII. 

He ate, and he was well supplied : and she, 
Who watch'd him like a mother, would have 
fed 

Him past all bounds, because she smiled to see 
Such appetite in one she had deem'd dead : 

But Zoe, being older than Haidee, 

Knew (by tradition, for she ne'er had read) 

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, 

And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst. 

CLIX. 

And so she took the liberty to state, 

Rather by deeds than words, because the case 

Was urgent, that the gentleman, whose late 
Had made her mistress quit her bed to trace 

The sea-shore at this hour, must leave his plate, 
Unless he wish'd to die upon the place — 

She snatch'd it, and refused another morsel, 

Saving, he had gorged enough to make a horse 
ill. 

CLX 

Next they — he being naked, save a tatter'd 
Pair of scarce decent trousers — went to work, 

And in the tire his recent rags they scaiter'd, 
And dress'd him, for the present, like a Turk, 



Or Greek— that is, although it not much mat 

ter'd, 

Omitting turban, slippers, pistols, dirk, — 

They fumish'd him, entire, exceptsome stitches, 

With a clean shirt, and very spacious breeches 



And then fair Haidee tried her tongue at 
speaking, , 

But not a word could Juan comprehend, 
Although he listen'd so that the young Greek in 

Her earnestness would ne'er have made an 
end ; 
And, as he interrupted not, went eking 

Her speech out to her protege and friend, 
Till pausing at the last her breath to take, 
She saw he did not understand Romaic. 



And then she had recourse to nods, and signs. 
And smiles, and sparkles of the speaking eye, 

And read (the only book she could) the lines 
Of his fair face, and found, by sympathy, • 

The answer eloquent, where the soul .shines 
And darts in one quick glance a long reply ; 

And thus in every look she saw exprest 

A world of words, and things at which she 
guess d. 

CLXIII. 

And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, 
And words repeated after her, he took 

A lesson in her tongue; but by surmise, 

No doubt, less of her language than her look ; 

As he who studies fervently the skies 

Turns oftener to the stars than to his book 

Thus Juan learn' d his alpha beta better. 

From Haidee's glance than any graven letter. 

CLXIV. 

'T is pleasing to be school'd in a strange tongue 
Bv female lips and eyes— that is, I mean, 

When both the teacher and the taught are young. 
As was the case, at least, where I have been ; 

They smile so when one 's right, and when 
one 's wrong 
They smile still more. and then there intervene 

Pressure of hands, perhaps even achastekiss; — 

I learn'd the little that I know by this: 

CLXV. 

That is, some words of Spanish, Turk and 
Greek, 
Italian not at all, having no teachers ; 
Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 
Learning that language chiefly Irom it* 
preachers, 



DON JUAN 



353 



Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 

I study, also Blair, the highest vouchers 
Of eloquence in piety and prose — 
I bate your poets, so read none of those. 

CLXVI. 
As for the ladies, I have nought to say, 

A wanderer from the British world of fashion, 
Were I, like other " dogs, have had my day," 

Like other men, too, may have had my 
passion — 
But that, like other things, has pass'd away, 

And all her fools whom I could lay the lash 

on : [me, 

Foes, friends, men, women, now are nought to 

But dreams of what has been, no more to be. 

CLXVII. 

Return we to Don Juan. He begun 

To hear new words, and to repeat them ; 
but 

Some feelings, universal as the sun, 

Were such as could not in his breast be shut 

More than within the bosom of a nun : 

He was in love, — as you would be, no doubt, 

With a young benefactress, — so was she, 

Just in the way we very often see. 

CLXVIII. 

And every day by daybreak — rather early 

For Juan, who was somewhat fond of rest- 
She came into the cave, but it was merely 

To see her bird reposing in his nest ; 
And she would softly stir his locks so curly, 

Without disturbing her yet slumberingguest, 
Breathing all gently o'er his cheek and mouth, 
As o'er a bed of roses the sweet south. 

CLXIX. 

And every mom his colour freshlier came, 
And every day help'd on his convalescence; 

T was well, because health in the human frame 
Is pleasant, besides being true love's essence, 

For health and idleness to passion's flame 
Are oil and gunpowder; and some good 
lessons 

Are also learnt from Ceres and from Bacchus, 

Without whom Venus will not long attack us. 

CLXX. 

While Venus fills the heart, (without heart 
really [good,) 

Love, though good always, is not quite so 
Ceres presents a plate of vermicelli, — 

For love must be sustain'd like flesh and 
blood, — 
While Bacchus pours out wine, or hands a jelly: 

Eggs, oysters, too, are amatory food ; 
But who is their purveyor from above 
Heaven knows, — it may be Neptune, Pan, 01 
Jove. t 



CLXXI. 

When Juan woke he found some good things 
ready, 

A bath, a breakfast, and the finest eyes 
That ever made a youthful heart less steady, 

Besides her maid's, as pretty for their size; 
But I have spoken of all this already — 

And repetition 's tiresome and unwise, — 
Well — Juan, after bathing in the sea, 
Came always back to coffee and Haidee. 

CLXXII. 

Both were so young, and one so innocent. 

That bathing pass'd for nothing; Juan 
seem'd 
To her, as 'twere, the kind of being sent, 

Of whom these two years she had nightly 
dream d, 
A something to be loved, a creature meant 

To be her happiness, and whom she deeni'd 
To render happy ; all who joy would win 
Must share it, — Happiness was born a twin. 



It was such pleasure to behold him, such 
Enlargement of existence to partake 

Nature with him, to thrill beneath his touch. 
To watch him slumbering, and to see him 
wake: 

To live with him for ever were too much ; 
But then the thought of parting made her 
quake : 

He was her own, her ocean-treasure, cast 

Like a rich wreck — her first love, and her last. 

CLXXIV. 

And thus a moon roll'd on, and fair Haidee 
Paid daily visits to her boy, and took 

Such plentiful precautions, that still he 

Remain'd unknown within his craggy nook; 

At last her father's prows put out to sea, 
For certain merchantmen upon the look, 

Not as of yore to carry off an Io, 

But three Bagusan vessels, bound for Scio 



Then came her freedom, for she had no mother. 

So that, her father being at sea, she was 
Free as a married woman, or such other 

Female, as where she likes may freely pass, 
Without even the incumbrance of a brother 

The freest she that ever gazed on glass ; 
I speak of Christian lands in this comparison. 
Where wives, at least, are seldom kepi ic 
garrison. 
2 a 2 



356 



DON JUAN. 



CLXXVI. 

Now she prolong' d her visits and her talk 
(For they must talk), and he hadlearnt to say 

So much as to propose to take a walk, — 
For little had he wander'd since the day 

On which, like a young flower snapp'd lrom 
the stalk, 
Drooping and dewy on the beach he lay, — 

And thus they walk'd out in the afternoon, 

And saw the sun set opposite the moon. 

CLXXVII. 

It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, 

With cliffs above, and a broad sandy shore, 

Guarded by shoals and rocks as by an host, 
With here and there a creek, whose aspect 
wore 

A better welcome to the tempest-tost ; 

And rarely ceased the haughty billow's roar, 

Save on the dead long summer days, which 
make 

The outstretch'd ocean glitter like a lake. 

clxxviii. 

And the small rippie spilt upon the beach 
Scarcely o'erpass'd the cream of your cham- 
pagne, [reach, 
When o'er the brim the sparkling bumpers 
That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart's 
rain ! [preach 
Few things surpass old wine ; and they may 
Who please, — the more because they preach 
in vain, — [laughter, 
Let us have wine and women, mirth and 
Sermons and soda-water the day after. 

CLXXIX. 

Man, being reasonable, must get drunk ' 
The best of life is but intoxication : 

Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk 
The hopes of all men, and of every nation ; 

Without their sap, how branchless were the 
trunk 
Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion : 

But to return, — Get very drunk ; and when 

You wake with headach, you shall see what 
then. 

CLXXX. 

King for your valet — bid him quickly bring 
Some hock and soda-water, then you '11 
know 

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king. 
For not the blest sherbet, sublimed with 
snow, 

Nor the first sparkle of the desert-spring, 
Nor Burgundy in all its sunset glow, 

After long travel, ennui, love, or slaughter, 

Vie with that draught of hock and .soda-water. 



CLXXXI. 

The coast — I think it was the coast thai I 
Was just describing — Yes, it was uieooast— 

Lay at this period quiet as the sky, 

The sands untumbled, the blue waves untost, 

And all was stillness, save the sea-bird's cry, 
And dolphin's leap, and little billow crov. 

By some low rock or shelve, that made it fret 

Against the boundary it scarcely wet. 

CLXXXII. 

And forth they wander'd, her sire being gone, 
As I have said, upon an expedition ; 

And mother, br<*her, guardian, she had none, 
Save Zoe, who, although with due precision 

She waited on her lady with the sun, 

Thought daily service was her only mission 

Bringing warm water, wreathing her long 
tresses, 

And asking now and then for cast-off dresse*. 

CLXXXIII. 

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded 
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill, 

Which then seems as if the whole earth it 
bounded, 
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and sti'l 

With the far mountain-crescent half srirrouiif'w 
On one side, and the deep sea calm and c')tf. 

Upon the other, and the rosy sky 

With one star sparkling through it like a»i •?/« 

CI.XXXIV. 

And thus they wander'd lorth, and hand) dhnntf 
Over the shining pebbles and the ijl e'lf, 

Glided along the smooth and barrifh'J sand, 
And in the worn and wild recty'a Jes 

Work'd by the storms, yet work"'! j.s it we;w 
plann'd, 
In hollow halls, with sparry no's and cells. 

They turn'd to rest; and, each eld q o by an arm, 

Yielded to the deep twilight't yurple charm. 

CLXXXV. 

They look'd up to the sky, whiwe floating k'lov? 

Spread like a rosy ocean,, v xst and bright ; 
They gazed upon the gliti.fr/ing sea below, 

Whence the broad mo ki rose circling into 

sight; flow, 

They heard the waves' *.dash, and the wind so 

And saw each oth* s> dark eyes darting light 
Into each other— anc , Beholding this, 
Their lips drew nea. , and clung into a kiss ; 

' / iXXVI. 

A long, long kiss, a, kiss of youth, and love, 
And beauty, *j\ ;oncentrating like rayu 

Into one focus, kindled from above: 
Such kiase.5 as belong to early days, 



DON JUAN. 



.357 



Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert 
move, 
And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze, 
Each kiss a heart-quake, — for a kiss's strength, 
I think, it must be reckon 'd by its length. 

CLXXXVII. 

By length I mean duration : theirs endured 
Heaven knows how long — no doubt they 
never reckon'd ; 

And if they had, they could not have secured 
The sum of their sensations to a second : 

They had not spoken ; but they felt allured, 
As if their souls and lips each other beckou'd, 

Which, being join'd, like swarming bees they 
clung — [honey sprung. 

Their hearts the flowers from whence the 

CLXXXVIII. 

They were alone, but not alone as they 
Who shut in chambers think it loneliness; 

The silent ocean, and the starlight bay, 

The twilight glow, which momently grew less, 

The voiceless sands, and dropping eaves, that lay 
Around them, made them to each other press, 

As it' there were no life beneath the sky 

Save theirs, and that their life could never die. 

CLXXXIX. 

They fear'dno eyes nor ears on that lone beach, 

They felt no tenors from the night, they were 
All in all to each other: though their speech 

Was broken words, they thought a language 
there, — 
And all the burning tongues the passions teach 

Found in one sigh the best interpreter 
Of nature's oracle — first love, — that all 
Which Eve has left her daughters since her fall. 

cxc. 
Haidee spoke. not of scruples, ask'd no vows, 

Nor offer'd any ; she had never heard 
Of plight and promises to be a spouse, 

Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd ; 
She was all which pure ignorance allows, 

And flew to her ydung mate like ayoung bird; 
And, never having dreamt of falsehood, she 
Had not one word to say of constancy. 

CXCI. 

She loved, and was beloved — she adored, 
And she was worshipp'd; alter nature's 
fashion, 

Their intense souls, into each other pour'd, 
If souls could die, had perish'd in that 
passion, — 

But by degrees their senses were restored, 
Again to be o'ercome, again to dash on ; 

And, beating 'gainst his bosom, Haidee's heart 

Felt as if never more to beat apart. 



exen. 

Alas ! they were so young, so beautiful, 
So -lonely, loving, helpless, and the hour 

Was that in which the heart is always lull, 
And, having o'er itself no further power, 

Prompts deeds eternity can not annul, 

But pays off moments in an endless showci 

Of hell-fire — all prepared for people giving 

Pleasure or pain to one another living. 

CXCIII, 

Alas ! for Juan and Haidee ! they were 
So lovely and so loving — till then never, 

Excepting our first parents, such a pair 
Had run the risk of being damu'd forever 

And Haidee, being devout as well as fair, 
Had, doubtless, heard about the Stygian rivt-r, 

And hell and purgatory — but forgot 

Just in the very crisis she should not. 

CXCIV. 

They look upon each other, and their eyes 
Gleam in the moonlight; and her white 
arm clasps 

Round Juan's head, and his around her lies 
Half buried in the tresses which it grasps ; 

She sits upon his knee and drinks his sighs, 
He hers, until they end in broken gasps ; 

And thus they form a group that's quite an- 
tique, 

Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek. 

CXCV. 

And when those deep and burning moments 
pass'd, 

And Juan sunk to sleep within her arms, 
She slept not, but all tenderly, though fast, 

Sustain'd his head upon her bosom's charms ; 
And now and then uer eye to heaven is cast, 

And then on the pale cheek her breast now 
warms, 
Pillow'd on her o'erflowing heart, which pants 
With all it granted, and with all it grants. 

cxcvi. 
An infant when it gazes on a light, 

A child the moment when it drains the 
breast, 
A devotee when soars the Host in sight, 
An Arab with a stranger for a guest, 
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight, 

A miser filling his most hoarded rnc-st, 
Feel rapture ; but not such true joy are reaping 
As they who watch o'er what they love while 
sleeping. 



358 



DON JUAN. 



CXCVII. 

For there it lies so tranquil, so beloved, 
All that it hath of life with us is living; 

So gentle, stirless, helpless, and unmoved, 
And all unconscious of the joy 't is giving; 

All it hath felt, inflicted, pass'd, and proved, 
Hush'd into depths beyond the watcher's 
diving; 

There lies the thing we love with all its errors 

And all its charms, like death without its terrors. 

CXCVIII. 

The lady watch'd her lover — and that hour 
Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean s solitude, 

O'erflow'd her soul with their united power ; 
Amidst the barren sand and rocks so rude 

She and her wave-worn love had made their 

bower, [intrude, 

Where nought upon their passion could 

And all the stars that crowded the blue space 

Saw nothing happier than her glowing face. 

CXCXIX. 

Alas ! the love of women ! it is known 
To be a lovely and a fearful thing; 

For all of theirs upon that die is thrown, 
And if 'tis lost, life hath no more to bring 

To them but mockeries of the past alone, 
And their revenge is as the tiger's spring, 

Deadly, and quick, and crushing ; yet, as real 

Torture is theirs, what they inflict they feel. 



They are right ; for man, to man so oft unjust, 

Is alwavs so to women ; one sole bond 
Awaits them, treachery is all their trust ; 
Taught to conceal, their bursting hearts 
despond 
Over their idol, till some wealthier lust 

Buys them in marriage — and what rests 
beyond ? 
A thankless husband, next a faithless lover, 
Then dressing, nursing, praying, and all's 
over. 



Some take a lover, some take drams or prayers, 
Some mind their household, others dissipa- 
tion, 

Some run away, and but exchange their cares, 
Losing the advantage of a virtuous station ; 

Few changes e'er can better their affairs, 
Theirs being an unnatural situation. 

From the dull palace to the dirty hovel : 

Some play the devil, and then write u novel. 



ecu. 

Haidee was Nature's bride, and knew not this, 

Haidee was Passion's child, born where the 

sun [kiss 

Showers triple light, and scorches even the 
Of his gazelle-eyed daughters ; she was one 

Made but to love, to feel that she was his 
Who was her chosen ; what was said or done 

Elsewhere was nothing. — She had nought to 
fear, [here. 

Hope, care, nor love, beyond, her heart beat 

CCIII. 

And oh! that quickening of the heart, that bea< • 
How much it costs us ! yet each rising throb 

Is in its cause as its effect so sweet, 

That Wisdom, ever on the watch to rob 

Joy of its alchemy, and to repeat 

Fine truths ; even Conscience, too, has a 
tough job 

To make us understand each good old maxim, 

So good — I wonder Castlereagh don't tax 'em. 

cciv. 
And now 't was done — on the lone shore 
were plighted [shed 

Their hearts ; the stars, their nuptial torches, 
Beauty upon the beautiful they lighted : 

Ocean their witness, and the cave their bed, 
By their own feelings hallow *d and united, 
Their priest was Solitude, and they were 
wed : 
And they were happy, for to their young eyes 
Each was an angel, and earth paradise. 

ccv. 
Oh, Love ! of whom great Caesar was the suitor, 

Titus the master, Antony the slave, 
Horace, Catullus, scholars, Ovkl tutor, 

Sappho the sage blue-stocking, in whose 

grave neuter — 

All those may leap who rather would be 

(Loucadia's rock still overlooks the wave) — 

Oh, Love ! thou art the very god of evil, 

For, after all, we cannot call thee devil. 

CCVI. 

Thou mak'st the chaste connubial state pre 
carious, 
And jestest with the brows of mightiest men. 
Caesar and Pompey, Mahomet, Belisarius, 
Have much employ 'd the muse of history's 
pen : 
Their lives and fortunes weie extremely various, 
Such worthies Time will never see again ; 
Yet to these four in three things the same 

luck holds. 
They all were heroes, conquerors, and cuckolds 



DON JUAN. 



359 



CCVII. 

Thou mak'st philosophers ; there 's Epicurus 
And Aristippus, a material crew ! 

Who to immoral courses would allure us 
By theories quite practicable too; 

Ii' only from the devil they would insure us, 
How pieasant were the maxim (not quite 
new), [us ?" 

" Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail 

So said the royal sage Sardanapalus. 

CCVIII 

But Juan ! had he quite forgotten Julia? 

And should he have forgotten her so soon ? 
I can't but say it seems to me most truly a 

Perplexingquestion; but, no doubt, the moon 
Does these things for us, and whenever newly a 

Palpitation rises, 'tis her boon, 
Else how the devil is it that fresh features 
Have such a charm for us poor human creatures ? 



ccxn. 

T is the perception of the beautiful, 
A tine extension of the faculties, 

Platonic, universal, wonderful, 

Drawn from the stars, and nlter'd through 
the skies, 

Without which life would be extremely dull; 
In short, it is the use of our own eyes, 

With one or two small senses added, just 

To hint that flesh is form'd of fiery dust. 

ccxiir. 

Yet 't is a painful feeling, and unwilling, 
For surely if we always could perceive 

In the same object graces quite as killing 
As when she rose upon us like an Eve, 

T would save us many a heartach, many a 
shilling, 
(For we must get them anyhow, or grieve,) 

Whereas if one sole lady pleased for ever, 

How pleasant for the heart, as well as liver I 



', hate inconstancy — I loathe, detest, 

Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made 

Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast 
No permanent foundation can be laid ; 

Love, constant love, has been my constant 
guest, 
A.nd yet last night, being at a masquerade, 

I saw the prettiest creature, fresh from Milan, 

Which save me some, sensations like a villain. 



But soon Philosophy came to my aid, 

And whisper'd, " Think of every sacred tie ! H 

''I will, my dear Philosophy ! ' I said, 

" But then her teeth, and then, oh, Heaven ! 
her eye ! 

I'll just inquire if she be wife or maid, 
Or neither — out of curiosity." 

" Stop ! " cried Philosophy, with air so Grecian. 

(Though she was masqued then as a fair Vene- 
tian ;) 

CCXI. 

*Stop!" sol stopp'd.— But to return: that 
which 

Men call inconstancy is nothing more 
Than admiration due where nature's rich 

Profusion with young beauty covers o'er 
Some favour'd object ; and as in the niche 

A lovely statue we almost adore, 
This sort of adoration of the real 
Is but a heightening of the " beau ideal." 



ccxiv. 

The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven, 
But changes night and day, too, like the sky ; 

Now o'er it clouds and thunder must be driven, 
And darkness and destruction as on high : 

But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, 
and riven, 
Its storms expire in water-drops ; the eye 

Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to 
tears, 

Which make the English climate of our years. 

ccxv. 

The liver is the lazaret of bile. 

But very rarely executes its function, 
For the first passion stays there such a while, 

That all the rest creep in and form a junction, 
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil, 

Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, com- 
punction, 
So that all mischiefs spring up ft'-m this entrail, 
Like earthquakes from the hidden fire call d 
" central." 

ccxvi. 
[n the mean time, without proceeding more 

In this anatomy, I've finish'd now 
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before, 

That being about the number I '11 allow 
Each canto of the twelve, or twenty-four; 

And, laying down my pen, I make my bow, 
Leaving Don Juan and Haidee to plead 
For them and theirs with all who deign to read 



360 



DON JUAN. 



HBon 3(uan. 



Marriage from love, like vinegar from 

A sad. sour, sober beverage — by time 
Ls sharpen 'd from its high celestial flavour 
Down to a very homely household savour. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 



Hail, Muse! etcetera. — We left Juan sleeping, 
Pillow 'd upon a fair and happy breast, 

And watch'd by eyes that never yet knew 
weeping, 
And loved by a young heart, too deeply blest 

To feel the poison through her spirit creeping, 
Or know who rested there, a foe to rest, 

Had soil'd the current of her sinless years, 

And turn'd her pure heart's purest blood to 
tears! 

ii. 
Oh, Love ! what is it in this world of ours 

Which makes it fatal to be loved ? Ah why 
With cypress branches hast thou wreathed thy 
bowers, 
And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? 
As those who dote on odours pluck the flowers, 
And place them on their breast — but place 
to die — 
Thus the frail beings we would fondly cherish 
Are laid within our bosoms but to perish. 

in. 

In her first passion woman loves her lover, 
In all the others all she loves is love, 

Which grows a habit she can ne'er get over, 
AnYl fits her loosely — like an easy glove, 

As you may find, whene'er you like to prove her: 
One man alone at first her heart can move; 

She tlien prefers him in the plural number, 

Not finding that the additions much encumber. 

IV. 

I know not if the fault be men's or theirs ; 

Butonething'sprettysure; a woman planted 
f Unless at once she plunge for life in prayers) — 

After a decent time must, be gallanted; 
Although, no doubt, her first of love affairs 

Is that to which her heart is wholly granted; 
Yet there are some, they say, whohavehadnone, 
But those who have ne'er end with only one. 48 

v. 

Tis melancholy, and a fearful sign 
Of human frailty, folly, also crime. 

That love and marriage rarely can combine, 
Although they both are born in the same 
dime* 



VI. 

There's something of antipathy, as 'twere, 
Between their present and their future state; 

A kind of flattery that's hardly fair 

Is used until the truth arrives too late — 

Yet what can people do, except despair? 
The same things change their names at such 
a rate ; 

For instance — passion in a lover's glorious, 

But in a husband is pronounced uxorious. 



Men grow ashamed of being so very fond ; 

They sometimes also get a little tired 
(But that, of course, is rare), and then despond : 

The same things cannot always be admire* L 
Yet 'tis "so nominated in the bond," 

That both are tied till one shall have expired. 
Sad thought! to lose the spouse that was 

adorning 
Our days, and put one s servants into mourning. 



There's doubtless something in domestic 
doings 

Which forms, in fact, true love's antithesis; 
Romances paint at lull length people's wooings, 

But only give a bust of marriages ; 
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings, 

There 's nothing wrong in a connubial kiss: 
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wile, 
He would have written sonnets all his life? 



All tragedies are finish'd by a death, 
All comedies are ended by a marriage; 

The future states of both are left to faith, 
For authors fear description might disparage 

The worlds to come of both, or fall beneath, 
And then both worlds would punish their 
miscarriage; [ready, 

So leaving each their priest and prayer-book 

They say no more of Death, or of the Lady.* 



The only two that in my recollection 

Have' sung of heaven and hell, or marriage 
are 

Dante 60 and Milton 51 , and of both the affection 
Wa.-, hapless in their nuptials, for some bar 



DON JUAN. 



3G1 



Of fault or temper ruin'd the connection 
(Such things, in fuel, it don't ask much to 
mar); 
But Dante's Beatrice and Milton's Eve 
Were not drawn from their spouses, yon con- 
ceive. 52 

XI. 

Some persons say that Dante meant theology 
By Beatrice, and not a mistress — I, 

Although my opinion may require apology, 
Deem this a commentator's phantasy, [he 

Unless indeed it was from his own knowledge 
Decided thus, and show'd good reason why ; 

I think that Dante's more abstruse ecstatics 

Meant to personify the mathematics. 

XII. 

Haidee and Juan were not married, but 
The fault was theirs, not mine: it is not fair, 

Chaste reader, then, in any way to put 

The blame on me, unless you wish they were; 

Then if you'd have them wedded, please to shut 
The book which treats of this erroneous pair, 

Before the consequences grow too awful; 

T is dangerous to read of loves unlawful. 

XIII. 

Yet they were happy, — happy in the illicit 
Indulgence of their innocent desires; 

But more imprudent grown with every visit, 
Haidee forgot the island was her sire's ; 

When we have what we like 't is hard to miss it, 
At least in the beginning, ere one tires ; 

Thus she came often, not a moment losing, 

Whilst her piratical papa 



was cruisinjj 



Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange. 
Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, 

For into a prime minister bu: change 
His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation ; 

But he, more modest, took an humbler range 
Of life, and in an honester vocation 

Pursued o'er the high seas his watery journey, 

\nd merely practised as a sea-attorney. 

xv. 

The good old gentleman had been detain'd 
By winds and waves, and some important 
captures ; 
And, in the hope of more, at sea remain'd, 
Although a squall or two had drnnp'd his 
raptures, 
By swamping one of the prizes ; he hau chain'd 
His prisoners, dividing them like chapters, 
In number 'd lots ; they all had cuffs and collars, 
Ard averaged each from ten to a hundred 
dollars. 



Some he disposed of off' Cape Matapan, 

Among his friends die Mainots ; some n», m»4 
To his Tunis correspondents, save one man 

To.ss'd overboard unsaleable (being old) ; 
The rest — save here and there some richer one 

Reserved for future ransom in the hold, 
Were link'd alike, as for the common people he 
Had a large order from the Dey of Tripoli. 

xvn 
The merchandise was served in the same way 

Pieced out for different marts in the Levant 
Except some certain portions of the prey, 

Light classic articles of female want," 
French stuffs, lace, tweezers, toothpicks, tea- 
pot, tray, 

Guitars and castanets from Alicant, 
All which selected from the spoil he gathers, 
Robb'd for his daughter by the best of fathers. 

xvm. 
A monkey, a Dutch mastiff', a mackaw, 

Two parrots, with a Persian cat and kittens 
He chose from several animals he saw — 

A terrier, too, which once had been a Briton's, 
Who dying on the coast of Ithaca, 

The peasants gave the poor dumb thing a 
pittance. 
These to secure in this strong blowing weather 
He caged in one huge hamper altogecher. 

XIX. 

Then having settled his marine affairs, 

Despatching single cruisers here and there 
His vessel having need of some repairs, 
He shaped his course to where his daughter 
fail- 
Continued still her hospitable cares ; 

But that part of the coast being shoal and 
hare, [mile 

And rough with reefs which ran out many a 
His port lay on the other side o' the isle. 

-VX. 

And there he went ashore without delay, 
Having n* custom-house nor quarantine 

To ask him awkward questions on the wav, 
About the time and place where he had been . 

He left, his ship to be hove down next day, 
With orders to the people to careen ; 

So that all hands were busy beyond measure* 

In getting out goods, ballast,guns, and treasure. 

XXI. 

Arriving at the summit of a hill [homo 

Which overlook'd the white walls of his 

He stopp'd. — What singular emotions fill 
Their bosoms who have been induced tc 
roam ! 



332 



DON JUAN. 



With fluttering doubts if all be well or ill — 

With love for many, and with fears for some. 
Ul feelings which o'erleap the years long lost, 
•_nd bring our hearts back to their starting-post. 

XXII. 

The approach of home to husbands and to sires, 
After long travelling by land or water, 

Most naturally some small doubt inspires — 
A female family's a serious matter; 

.None trust the sex more, or so much admires — 
But they hate flattery, so I never flatter ;) 

Wives in their husbands' absences grow subtler, 

Asd daughters sometimes run off with the 
butler. 

XXIII. 

An honest gentleman at his return 

May not have the good fortune of Ulysses ; 
Not all lone matrons for their husbands mourn, 
Or show the same dislike to suitors' kisses ; 
The odds are that he rinds a handsome urn 
To his memory — and two or three young 
misses [riches- 

Born to some friend, who holds his wife and 
And that his Argus bites him by — the breeches. 

XXIV. 

If single, probably his plighted fair , 

Has in his absence wedded some rich miser; 

But all the better, for the happy pair 

May quarrel, and the laxly growing wiser, 

He may resume his amatory care 
As cavalier servente, or despise herj 

And that his sorrow may not be a dumb one, 

Write odes on the Inconstancy of Woman. 

XXV. 

And oh ! ye gentlemen who have already 
Some chaste liaison of the kind — I mean 

An honest friendship with a married lady — • 
The only thing of this sort ever seen 

To last — of all connections the most steady, 
And the true Hymen (the first 's but a 
screen) — 

Yet for all that keep not too long away, 

I ' ve known the absent wrong'd four times a 
day. 

XXVI. 

Lambro, our sea-solicitor, who had 

Much less experience of dry land than ocean, 

On seeing his own chimney-smoke, felt glad; 
But not knowing metaphysics, had no notion 

Of the true reason of his not being sad, 
Or that of any other strong emotion; 

He loved his child, and would have wept the 
loss of her, [pher. 

But knew the cause no more than a philoso- 



XXVII. 

He saw his white walls shining in the sun, 
His garden trees all shadowy and green; 

He heard his rivulet's light bubbling run, 
The distant dog- bark ; and percei ved between 

The umbrage of the wood so cool and dun 
The moving figures, and the sparkling sheen 

Of arms (in the East all arm) — and various dyes 

Of colour'd garbs, as bright as butterflies. 

XXVIII. 

And as the spot where they appear he nears, 
Surprised at these unwonted signs of idling, 

He hears — alas! no music of the spheres, 
But an unhallow'd, earthly sound of fiddling! 

A melody which made him doubt his ears, 
The cause being past his guessing or un 
riddling; 

A pipe, too, and a drum, and shortly after, 

A most unoriental roar of laughter. 



And still more nearly to the place advancing 
Descending rather quickly the declivity, 

Through the waved branches, o'er the green 
sward glancing, 
'Midst other indications of festivity, 

Seeing a troop of his domestics dancing 
Like dervises, who turn as on a pivot, he 

Perceived it was the Pyrrhic dance 53 so martial 

To which the Levantines are very partial. 



And further on a troop of Grecian girls, 54 
The first and tallest her white kerchie 1 
waving, 
Were strung together like a row of pearls, 
Link'd hand in hand, and dancing; each 
too having [curls- 

Down her white neck long floating auburn 
(The least of which would set ten poet.° 
raving)* 
Their leader sang — and bounded to her song 
With choral step and voice, the virgin throng. 

XXXI. 

And here, assembled cross-legg'd round theiv 
trays, 

Small social parties just begun to dine ; 
Pilaus and meats of all sorts met the gaze, 

And flasks of Samian and of Chian wine, 
And sherbet cooling in the porous vase; 

Above them their dessert grew on its vine; 
The orange and pomegranate nodding o'er 

Dropp'd in their laps, scarce pluck'd, their 
inellow store. 



DON JUAN 



3G3 



XXXII. 

A band of children, round a snow-white ram, 
There wreathe his venerable horns with 
flowers ; 

While peaceful as if still an unwean'd lamb, 
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers 

His sober head, majestically tame, 

Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers 

His brow, as if in act to butt, and then 

Yielding to their small hands, draws back again. 

XXXIII. 

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses., 
Their large black eyes, and soft seraphic 
cheeks, [tresses, 

Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long 
The gesture which enchants, the eye that 
speaks, 
The innocence which happy childhood blesses, 
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ; 
So that the philosophical beholder 
Sigh'd for their sakes — that they should e'er 
grow older. 

XXXIV. 

Afar, a dwarf buffoon stood telling tales 
To a sedate grey circle of old smokers 

Of secret treasures found in hidden vales, 
Of wonderful replies from Arab jokers, 

Of charms to make good gold and cure bad ails, 
Of rocks bewitch'd that open to the knockers, 

Of magic ladies who, by one sole act, 

Transform'd their lords to beasts (but that's a 
fact). 

XXXV. 

Here was no lack of innocent diversion 
For the imagination or the senses, 

Song, dance, wine, music, stories from the 
Persian, 
All pretty pastimes in which no offence is; 

Bin Lambro saw all these things with aversion, 
Perceiving in his absence such expenses, 

Dreading that climax of all human ills, 

The inflammation of his weeldy bills. 

XXXVI. 

Ah! what is man? what perils still environ 
The happiest mortals even after dinner — 

A day of gold from out an age of iron 
Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner; 

Pleasure (whene'er she sings, at least) *s a siren, 
That lures, to flay alive, the young beginner ; 

Lami.To's reception at his people's banquet 

Wo* such a» Are accords to a wet blanket. 



XXXVII. 

He — being a man who seldom used a word 
Too much, and wishing gladly to surprise 

(In general he surprised men with the sword 
His daughter — had not sent before, to advise 

Of his arrival, so that no one stirr'd ; 

And long he paused to re-assure his eyes, 

In fact much more astonish'd than delighted, 

To find so much good company invited. 



XXXVIII. 

He did not know (alas ! how men will lie) 
That a report (especially the Greeks) 

Avouch'd his death (such people never die), 
And put his house in mourning several 
weeks. — 

But now their eyes and also lips were dry ; 
The bloom, too, had return'd to Haidee's 
cheeks. 

Her tears, too, being return'd into their fount, 

She now kept house upon her own account. 

XXXIX. 

Hence all this rice, meat, dancing, wine, and 
fiddling, 
Which turn'd the isle into a place of pleasure, 
The servants all were getting drunk or idling, 
A life which made them happy beyond mea- 
sure. 
Her father's hospitality seem'd middling, 
Compared with what Haidee did with his 
treasure ; [proving, 

T was wonderful how things went on im- 
While she had not one hour to spare from 
loving. 



Perhaps you think in stumbling on this feast 
He flew into a passion, and in fact 

There was no mighty reason to be pleased; 
Perhaps you prophesy some sudden act, 

The whip, the rack, or dungeon at the least, 
To teach his people to be more exact. 

And that, proceeding at a very hifrh rate. 

He showed the royal penchants of a pirate. 



You're wrong. — He was the mildest manner'd 
man 

That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat; 
With such true breeding of a gentleman. 

You never could divine his real thought; 
No courtier could, and scarcely woman car. 

Gird more deceit within a petticoat; 
Pity he loved adventurous life's variety, 
He was so great a loss to good society. 



304 



DON JUAN. 



XLII. 

Advancing to the nearest dinner tray, 

Tapping the shoulder of the nighest guest, 

With a peculiar smile, which, hy the way, 
Boded no good, whatever it express'd. 

He aslc'd the meaning of this holiday ; 

The vinous Greek to whomhehadaddress'd 

His question, much too merry to divine 

The questioner, fili'd up a glass of wine, 



And without turning his facetious head, 
Over his shoulder, with a Bacchant air, 

Presented the o'erflowing cup, and said, 
" Talking 's dry work, I have no time to 
spare." 

A second hiccup'd, " Our old master's dead, 
You 'd better ask our mistress who 's his heir." 

" Our mistress !" quoth a third : " Our mis- 
tress ! — pooh ! — 

You mean our master — not the old, but new." 

XLIV. 

These rascals, being new comers, knew not 
whom [fell— 

They thus address'd — and Lambro's visage 
And o'er his eye a momentary gloom [quell 

Pass'd, but he strove quite courteously to 
The expression, and endeavouring to resume 

His smile, requested one of them to tell 
The name and quality of his new patron, 
Who seem'd to have turn'd Haidee into a 
matron. 



" I know not," quoth the fellow, " who or 
what 

He is, nor whence he came — and little care; 
But this I know, that this roast capon's fat, 

\nd that good wine ne'er wash'd down 
better fare ; 
And if you are not satisfied with that, 

Direct your questions to my neighbour there ; 
He'll answer all for better or for worse, 
For none likes more to hear himself converse."* 

XLVI. 

I said that Lambro was a man of patience, 
And certainly he show'd the bestof breeding. 

Which scarce even France, the paragon of 
nations, 
E'er saw her most polite of sons exceeding; 

He bore these sneers against hisnearrelations, 
His own anxiety, his heart, too, bleeding, 

The insults, too, of every servile glutton. 

Who all the time was eating up his mutton. 



XLVI I. 

Now in a person used to much command — 

To bid men come, and go, and come again— 
To see his orders done, too, out of hand — 
Whether the word was death, or but the 

chain — 
It may seem strange tofind his mannersbland; 

Yet such things are, which I can not explain, 
Though douhtless he who can command himself 
Is good to govern — almost as a Guelf. 

xlviii. 
Not that he was not sometimes rash or so, 

But never in his real and serious mood ; 
Then calm, concentrated, and still, and slow, 

He lay coil'd like the boa in the wood ; 
With him it never was a word and blow, 

His angry word once o'er, he shed no blood, 
But in his silence there was much to rue, 
And his one blow left little work for two. 

XLIX. 

He ask'd no further questions, and proceeded 
On to the house, but by a private way, 

So that the few who met him hardly heeded, 
So little they expected him that day; 

If love paternal in his bosom pleaded 

For Haidee's sake, is more than I can say, 

But certainly to one deem'd dead returning, 

Thisrevel seem'd a curious mode of mourning. 
L. 

If all the dead could now return to life, 
(Which God forbid!) or some, or a great 
many, 

For instance, if a husband or his wife 
(Nuptial examples are as good as any). 

No doubt whate'er might be their former strife, 
The present weather would be much more 
rainy — 

Tears shed into the grave of the connection 

Would share most probahly its resurrection. 

LI. 

He enter'd in the house no more his home, 
A thing to human feelings the most trying, 

And harder for the heart to overcome, [dying, 
Perhaps, than even the mental pangs of 

To find our hearthstone turn'd into a tomb, 
And round its once warm precincts palely 
lying 

The ashes of our hopes is a dee]) grief, 

Beyond a single gentleman's belief. 

LII. 

He enter'd in the house — his home no more, 
For without hearts there is no hom: — a nd 
felt 

The solitude of passing his own door 

Without a welcome there he 'ug had dwelt 



DON JUAN. 



365 



There his few peaceful days Time had swept 
o'er, [melt 

There his worn hosom and keen eye would 
Over the innocence of that sweet child, 
His only shrine of feelings undehled. 

LI 1 1. 

He was a man of a strange temperament, 
Of mild demeanour though of savage mood, 

Moderate in all his habits, and content 
With temperance in pleasure, as in food, 

Quick to perceive, and strong to bear, and 
meant 
For something better, if not wholly good; 

His country's wrongs and his despair to save 
her 

Had stung him from a slave to an enslaver. 

LIV. 

The love of power, and rapid gain of gold, 
The hardness by long habitude produced, 

The dangerous life in which he had grown old, 
The mercy he had granted oft abused, 

The sights he was aceustom'd to behold, 
The wild seas, and wild men with whom he 
cruised, 

Had cost his enemies a long repentance, 

»nd made him a good friend, but bad ao. 
quaintance. 

LV. 

But. something of the spirit of old Greece 
Flash'd o'er his soul a few heroic rays, 

Such as lit onward to the Golden Fleece 
His predecessors in the Colchian days ; 

T is true he had no ardent love for peace — 
Alas ! his country show'd no path to praise : 

Hate to the world and war with every nation 

He waged, in vengeance of her degradation. 

LVI. 

Still o'er his mind the influence of the clime 
Shed its Ionian elegance, which show'd 

Its power unconsciously full many a time,— 
A taste seen in the choice of his abode, 

A love of music ami of scenes sublime, 

A pleasure in the gentle stream that flow'd 

Past him in crystal, and a joy in flowers, 

Bedew'd his spirit in his calmer hours. 

LVII. 

But whatso'er he had of love reposed 

On that, beloved daughter ; she had been 

The only thing which kept his heart unclosed 
Amidst the savage deeds he had done and 
seen, 

k lonely pure affection unopposed : 
There wanted but the loss of this to wean 

His feelings from all milk of human kindness, 

And turn him like the Cyclops mad with blind- 



LVIII. 

The cublcss tigress in her jungle raging 
Is dreadful to the shepherd and the flocSr; 

The ocean when its yeasty war is waging 
Is awful to the vessel near the rock ; 

But violent things will sooner bear assuaging 
Their fury being spent by its own shock. 

Than the stern, single, deep, and wordless ire 

Of a strong human heart, and in a sire. 

LIX. 

It is a hard although a common case 

To find our children running restive — they 

In whom our brightest days we would retrace, 
Our little selves re-form'd in finer clay, 

Just as old age is creeping on apace, 

And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, 

They kindly leave us, though not quite alone; 

But in good company — the gout or stone. 

LX. 

Yet a fine family is a fine thing 

(Provided they don't come in after dinner); 
Tis beautiful to see a matron bring 

Her children up (if nursing them don't thin 
her). 
Like cherubs round an altar-piece they cling 

To the fire-side (a sight to touch a sinner). 
A lady with her daughters or her nieces 
Shine like a guinea and seven-shilling pieses 

LXI. 

Old Lambro pass'd unseen a private gate, 
And stood within hjs hall at eventide ; 

Meantime the lady and her lover sate 

At wassail in their beauty and their prid* 

An ivory inlaid table spread with state 

Before them, and fair slaves on every sid<v; 

Gems, gold, and silver, form'd the serviod 
mostly, 

Mother of pearl and coral the less costly. 

LXII. 

The dinner made about a hundred dishes ; 

Lamb and pistachio nuts — in short, nil 

meats, [fi.shes 

And saffron soups, and sweetbreads ; ami the 

Were of the finest that e'er flounced in nets, 
Drest to a Sybarite's most pamper \\ Wishes ; 

The beverage was various sherbets 
Of raisin, orange, and pomegranate juice, 
Squeezed through the rind, which makes it 
best for use. 

LXIII. 

These were ranged round, each in its crystal 
ewer, i repast, 

And fruits and date-bread loaves closed thfl 
And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pine, 

In small fine China cups, same in at lwi j 



M6 



DON JUAN. 



Gold cups of filigree made to secure 

The hand from burning underneath them 
placed, 
Cloves, cinnamon, and saffron too were boil'd 
Up with the coffee, which (I think) they spoil'd. 



And dwarfs and blacks, and such like '.hlcgs, 
that gain [ »fafc 'a 

Their bread as ministers and favourites— 
To say, by degradation) — mingled there 
As plentiful as in a court, or fair. 



The hangings of the room were tapestry, made 
Of velvet panels, each of different hue, 

And thick with damask flowers of silk inlaid; 
And round them ran a yellow border too ; 

The upper border, richly wrought, display 'd, 
Embroider'd delicately o'er with blue, 

Soft Persian sentences, in lilac letters, 

From poets, or the moralists their betters. 

LXV. 

These Oriental writings on the wall, 

Quite common in those countries, are a kind 

Of monitors adapted to recall, 

Like skulls at Memphian banquets, to the 
mind 

The words which shook Belshazzar in his hall, 

And took his kingdom from him: You will 

find, [treasure, 

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's 

There is no sterner moralist than Pleasure. 

I.XVI. 

A beauty at the season's close grown hectic, 
A genius who has drunk himself to death, 

A rake turn'd methodistic, or Eclectic- 2 - 
(For that's the name they like to pray 
beneath) — 

But most, an alderman struck apoplectic, 
Are things that really take away the 
breath, — [able 

And show that late hours, wine, and love are 

To do not much less damage than the table. 

LXVtX. 

Haidee and Juan carpeted their feet 

On crimson satin, border *d with pale blue ; 

Their sofa occupied three parts complete 
Of the apartment — and appear'd quite new; 

The velvet cushions (for a throne more meet) — 
Were scarlet, from whose glowing centre 
grew 

A sun emboss'd in gold, whose rays of tissue, 

Meridan-like, were seen all light to issue. 

LXVIII. 

Crystal and marble, plate and porcelain, 

Haa done their work of splendour; Indian 

mats [stain, 

And Persian carpets, which the heart bled to 

Over the floors were spread ; gazelles and 

cats. 



There was no wc.nt of lofty mirrors, and 
The tables, most of ebony inlaid 

With mother of pearl or ivory, stood at hand, 
Or were of tortoise-shell or rare woods made, 

Fretted with gold or silver: — by command, 
The greater part of these were ready spread 

With viands and sherbets in ice — and wine — 

Kept for all comers, at all hours to din e. 

i.xx. 

Of all the dresses I select Haidee's : 

She wore two jelicks — one was of pal* 
yellow ; 
Of azure, pink, and white was her chemise — 
'Neath which her breast heaved like a little 
billow; 
With buttons form'd of pearls as large as peas, 
All gold and crimson shone her jelick's 
fellow, 
And the striped white gauze baracan that 
bound her, [her. 

Like fleecy clouds about the moon, flow'd round 

LXXI. 

One large gold bracelet clasp'd each lovely arm, 
Luckless — so pliable from the pure gold 

That the hand stretch'd and shut it without 
harm, 
The limb which it adorn'd its only mould ; 

So beautiful — its very shape would charm, 
And clinging as if loath to lose its hold. 

The purest, ore enclosed the whitest skm 

That e'er by precious metal was held in. 

LXXII. 

Around, as princess of her father's land, 
A like gold bar above her instep roll'd, 55 

Announced her rank ; twelve rings were on 

her hand ; [fine fold 

Her hair was starr'd with gems ; her veil's 

Below her breast Was fasten 'd with a band 
Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce 
be told ; 

Her orange silk full Turkish trousers furl'd 

Above the prettiest ankle in the world. 

LXXIII. 

Tier hair's long auburn waves down to he* 
heel 
Flow'd like an Alpine torrent which the s»ic 
Dyes with his morning light, — and wouid 
conceal 
Her person^ if allow d at large to run, 



DON JUAN. 



3G7 



And still they seem resentfully to feel 

The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun 
Their bonds whene'er some Zephyr caught 

began 
To offer his young pinion as her fan, 

LXXIV. 

Round her she made an atmosphere of life, 
The very air seem'd lighter from her eyes, 

They were so soft and beautiful, and rife 
With all we can imagine of the skies, 

And pure as Psyche ere she grew a wife — 
Too pure even for the purest human ties ; 

Her overpowering presence made you feel 

It would not be idolatry to kneel. 

LXXV. 

Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were 
tinged 
(It is the country's custom 57 ), but in vain ; 
For those large black eyes were so blackly 
fringed, 
The glossy rebels mock'd the jetty stain, 
And in their native beauty stood avenged : 
Her nails were touch'd with henna; but 
again 
The power of art was turn'd to nothing, for 
They could not look more rosy than before. 

LXXVI. 

The henna should be deeply dyed to make 
The skin relieved appear more fairly fair ; 

She had no need of this, day ne'er will break 
On mountain tops more heavenly white 
than her; 

The eye might doubt' if it were well awake, 
She was so like a vision ; I might err, 

But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly 

" To gild retined gold, or paint the lily." 

T.XXVII. 

Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, 
But a white baracan, and so transparent 

The sparkling gems beneath you might behold, 
Like small stars through the milky way 
apparent ; 

His turban, furl'd in many a graceful fold, 
An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in 't 

Surmounted, as its clasp, a glowing crescent, 

Whose rays shone ever trembling, but in- 
cessant. 

LXXVITI. 

And now they were diverted by their suite, 
Dwarfs, dancing girls, black eunuchs, and a 
poet, 
Which made their new establishment complete; 
The last was of great fame, and liked to 
show it : 



His verses rarely wanted their due feet — 

And for his, theme — he seldom sung below it 
He being paid to satirise or flatter, 
As the psalm says, " inditing a good matter." 

I.XXIX. 

He praised the present, and abused the past, 
Reversing the good custom of old days, 

An Eastern anti-jacobin at last 

He turn'd, preferring pudding to no praise—* 

For some few years his lot had been o'crcast 
By his seeming independent in his lays, 

But now he sung the Sultan and the Pacha 

With truth like Southey, and with verse like 
Crashaw. 

LXXX. 

He was a man who had seen many changes, 
And always changed as true as any needle; 
His polar star being one which rather ranges, 
And not the fix'd — he knew the way to 
wheedle : 
So vile he 'scaped the doom which oft avenges ; 
And being fluent (save indeed when fee'd 
ill). 
He lied with such a fervour of intention — 
There was no doubt he earn'd his laureata 
pension. 

LXXXI. 

But he had genius,— when a turn-coat has i^ 

The " Vates irritabilis" takes care 

That without notice few full moons shall pass 

it; [stare: — 

Even good men like to make the public 

But to my subject— -let me see — what was 

it?— 

Oh ! — the third canto— and the pretty pair — 

Their loves, and feasts, and house, and dress, 

and mode 
Of living in their insular abode. 

LXXXII. 

Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less 
In company a very pleasant fellow, 

Had been the favourite of full many a mess 
Of men, and made them speeches when 
half mellow ; [guess, 

And though his meaning they could rarely 
Yet still they deign 'd to hiccup or to bellow 

The glorious meed of popular applause 

Of which the first ne'er knows the second 



lxxxiii. 
But now being lifted into high society, 

And having pick'd up several odds and ends 
Of free thoughts in his travels for variety. 
He deem'd, being in a lone isle, unnng 
friends, 



368 



DON JUAN. 



That without any danger of a riot, he 

Might for long lying make himself amends; 
And singing as he .sung in his warm youth, 
A<n-ec to a short armistice with truth. 



He had travell'd 'mongst the Arabs, Turks, 
and Franks, [nations ; 

And knew the self-loves of the different 
And having lived with people of all ranks, 

Had something ready upon most occasions — 
Which got him a few presents and some thanks. 

fie varied with some skill his adulations ; 
To " do at Rome as Romans do," a piece 
Of conduct was which he observed in Greece. 



Thus, usually when he was ask'd to sing, 
He gave the different nations something 
national ; [king," 

T was all the same to him — " God save the 
Or " Ca ira," according to the fashion all : 

His muse made increment of any thing, 
From the high lyric down to the low rational ; 

If Pindar sang horse-races, what should hinder 

Himself from being as pliable as Pindar ? 

LXXXVI. 

In France, for instance, he would write a 
chanson ; 
In England a six canto quarto tale ; 
In Spain, he 'd make a ballad or romance on 
The last war — much the same in Portugal; 
In Germany, the Pegasus he 'd prance on 
Would be old Goethe's — (see what says De 
Stael) ; 
In Italy, he 'd ape the " Trecentisti ;" 
In Greece, he'd sing some sort of hymn like 
this t 'ye : 

1. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! 

Where burning Sappho loved and sung, 
Where grew the arts of war and peace, — 

Where Delos rose, and Phcebus sprung ! 
Eternal summer gilds them yet, 
But all, except their sun, is set. 



The Scian58 and the Teian 59 muse, 
The hero's harp, the lover's lute, 

Have found the fame your shorts refuse ; 
Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further, west 

Than your sires' " Islands of the Blest." 



The mountains look on Marathon— 
And Marathon looks on the sea ; 

And musing there an hour alone, 
I dream'd that Greece might still be 

For standing on the Persians' grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 



A king sate on the rocky brow 

Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis ; 

And ships, by thousands, lay below, 
And men in nations ; — all were his ! 

He counted them at break of day — 

And when the sun set where were they ? 

5. 

And where are they ? and where art thou 
My country? On thy voiceless shore 

The heroic lay is tuneless now — 
The heroic bosom beats no more ! 

And must thy lyre, so long divine, 

Degenerate into hands like mine ? 



'T is something in the dearth of fame, 
Though link'd among a fetter'd race, 

To feel at least a patriot's shame, 
Even as I sing, suffuse my face; 

For what is left the poet here ? 

For Greeks a blush — for Greece a tear. 

7. 
Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? 

Must we but blush ? — Our fathers bled. 
Earth! render back from out thy breast 

A remnant of our Spartan dead ! 
Of the three hundred grant but three, 
To make a new Thermopylae ! 

8. 

What, silent still ? and silent all ? 

Ah ! no ; — the voices of the dead 
Sound like a distant torrent's fall, 

And answer, " Let one living head, 
But one arise, — we come, we come!" 
T is but the living who are dumb. 

y. 

In vain — in vain, strike other chords ; 

Fill high the cup with Samian wine! 
Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, 

And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! 
Hark ! rising to the ignoble call — 
How answers each bold Bacchanal » 



DON JUAN. 



369 



10. 

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet, 
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? 

Of two such lessons, why forget 
The nobler and the manlier one ? 

1 du have the letters Cadmus gave — 

1 aink ye he meant them for a slave ? 

11. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine . 

We will not think of themes like these ! 
It made Anacreon's song divine : 

He served— -but served Polycrates — 
A tyrant ; but our masters then 
Were still, at least, our cot jurymen. 

12. 

The tyrant of the Chersonese 

Was freedom's best and bravest friend ; 
Thai tyrant was Miltiades ! 

Oh ! that the present hour would lend 
Another despot of the kind ! 
Such chains as his were sure to bind. 

13. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ' 
On Suli's rock, and Purga's shore, 

Exists the remnant of a line 

Such as the Doric mothers bore ; 

And there, perhaps, some seed is sown, 

The Heracleidan blood might own. 

14. 

Trust not for freedom to the Franks — 
They have a king who buys and sells : 

tn native swords, and native ranks, 
The only hope of courage dwells ; 

But Turkish force, and Latin fraud, 

Would break your shield, however broad. 

15. 

Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! 

Our virgins dance beneath the shade — 
[ see their glorious black eyes shine ; 

But gazing on each glowing maid, 
My own the burning tear-drop laves, 
l'o think such breasts must suckle slaves. 

16. 

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, 
Where nothing, save tb# waves and I, 

May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; 
There, swan-like, let me sing and die : 

h. land of slaves shall ne'er be mine — 

Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! 

25 



LXXXVTI. 

Thus sung, or would, or could, or should have 
sung, 
The modern Greek, in tolerable verse ; 
If not like Orpheus quite, when Greece was 
young, [worse 

Yet in these times he might have done mud 
His strain display'd some feeling — right or 
wrong ; 
And feeling, in a poet, is the source 
Of others' feeling; but they are suc-L liars, 
And take all colours — like tb*, hands of dyer* 

LXXXVIII. 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, 
Falling like clew, upon a thought produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps million*, 

ti:ink; [uses 

'Tis strange, the shortest letter which man 

Instead of speech, may form a lasting link 
Of ages ; to what straits old Time reduces 

Frail man, when paper — even a rag like this 

Survives himself, his tomb, and all that s his. 

LXXXIX. 

And when his bones are dust, his grave ablariK 
His station, generation, even his nation, 

Become a thing, or nothing, save to rank, 
In chronological commemoration, 

Some dull MS. oblivion long Las sanu, 

Or graven stone found in a barrack's statiot 

In digging the foundation of a closet, 

May turn his name up as a rare deposit. 

xc. 

And glory long has made the sages smile ; 

'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion 
wind — 
Depending more upon the historian's style 

Than on the name a person leaves behind 
Troy owes to Homer what whist owes to Hoyle 

The present century was growing blind 
To the great Marlborough's skill in giving 

knocks, 
Until his late Life by Arch**acon Cose 

xci. 
Milton 's the prince of poets — so we ?ay , 

A little heavy, but no less divine: 
An independent being in his day — 

Learn'd, pious, temperate in love and wine; 
But his life falling into Johnson s way, 

We re'told thi.> great high priest of all the Nine 
Was whipt at college — a harsh sire — odd 

spouse, 
Foi the fivst Mrs. Milton left his house. 
2 B 



370 



DON JUAN 



XCI1 

All these are, certes, ente.taining facts, 

Like Shakspeare's stealing deer, Lord Ba- 
con's bribes ; 
Like Titus' youth, and Cesar's earliest acts ; 
Like Burns (whom Doctor dime well de- 
scribes) ; 
Like Cromwell's pranks; — but although truth 
exacts 
These amiable descriptions from the scribes, 
As most essential to their hero's story, 
They do not much contribute to his glory. 

XCIII. 

All are not moralists, like Southey, when 
He prated to the world of " Pantisocrasy;" 

Or Wordsworth unexcised, unhired,who then 
Season'd his pedlar poems with democracy ; 

Or Cole idge, long before his flighty pen 
Let to the Morning Post its aristocracy; 

When he and Southey, following the same 
path, 

Espoused two partners (milliners of Bath). 

XCIV. 

Such names at present cut a convict figure, 

The very Botany Bay in moral geography; 
Their loyal treason, renegado rigour, [graphy; 
Are good manure for their more bare bio- 
Wordsworth's last quarto, by the way, is bigger 
Than any since the birthday of typography ; 
A drowsy frowzy poem, call'd the " Excur- 
sion," 
Writ in a manner which is my aversion. 

xcv. 

He there builds up a formidable dyke 
Between his own and others' intellect ; 

But Wordsworth's poems, and his followers, 
like 
Johann* Southcote's Shiloh, and her sect, 

Are t^ r^.> which in this century con't strike 
Th« public mind — so few are the elect ; 

And the new births of both their stale virgin- 
ities 

Have proved but dropsies, taV en for divinities. 

XCVI. 

But let me to my story : I must own, 
If I have any fault, it is digression — 

I -eaving my people to proceed alone, 
While I soliloquise beyond expression ; 

But th-^je are my addresses from the throne, 
Which put off business to the ensuing session : 

Forgetting each omission is a loss to 

The world, not quite so great as Ariosto. 



XCVII. 

I know that what out neighbours call " // n 
gueurs," [thing, 

(We've not so good a word, but have the 
In that complete perfection which ensures 

An epic from Bob Soathey every spring — ) 
Form not the true temptation which allures 

The reader; but 'twould not be hard to 
bring 
Some fine examples of the epopee, 
To prove its grand ingredient is ennui 

xevm. 
We learn from Horace, " Homer sometimes 
sleeps;" [wakes. — 

We feel without him, W r ordsworth sometimes 
To show with what complacency he creeps, 

With his dear " Waff goners," around his lakes. 
He wishes for " a boat" to sail the deeps — 

Of ocean? — No, of air; and then he makes 
Another outcry for " a little boat," 
And drivels seas to set it well afloat. 

XCIX. 

If he must fain sweep o'er the ethereal plain, 

AndPcgasus runs restive in his " Waggon,' 
Could he not beg the loan of Charles's Wain? 

Or pray Medea for a single dragon ? 
Or if too classic for his vulgar brain, 

He fear'd his neck to venture such a nag on, 
And he must needs mount, nearer to the moon, 
Could not the blockhead ask for a balloon? 

c. 
" Pedlars," and " Boats," and "Waggons! 
Oh! ye shades 

Of Pope and Dryden, are we come to this? 
That trash of such sort not alone evades 

Contempt, but from the bathos' vast abyss 

Floats scumlike uppermost, and these Jack 

Cades [hiss — - 

Of sense and song above your graves may 
The " little boatman" and his " Peter Bell" 
Can sneer at him who drew " Achitophel!" 

ci. 
I" our tale. — The feast was over, the slave* 
gone, 

The dwarfs and dancing girls had ^11 reared ; 
The Arab lore and poet's song weie done, 

And every sound of revelry expired ; 
The lady and her lover, left alone, 

The rosy flood of twilight's sky admired; — 
Ave Maria! o'ef the earth and sea, L thee' 
That heavenliest hour of H. laven is worthies! 

en. 
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour. 

The time, the clime, the J-pot, where I so sol} 
Have felt that moment in its fullest power 

Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and roft 



DON JUAN. 



371 



While swung the deep bell in the- distant 

tower. 
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, 
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, 
And yet the forest leaves seem stirr'd with 

prayer. 

cm. 
ve Maria ! 't is the hour of prayer ! 
Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love ! 
Ave Maria! may our spirits dare 

Look up to thine and to thy Son's above ! 
Ave Maria! oh that face so fait! 

Those downcast eyes beneath the Almighty 
dove — 
What though 'tis but a pictured image ? — 

strike — 
That painting is no idol, — 'tis too like. 



Whateer of peace about our hearthstone clings 
Whate'er our household gods protect of dear 
Are gathcr'i] round us by thy look of rest ; 
Thou bring'st the child, too, to the motlier'i 
breast. 

cvm. 

Soft hour ! which wakes the wisn ana me»l» 
the heart 

Of those who sail the seas, on the first day 
When they from their sweet friends are torn 
apart ; 

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way 
As the far bell of vesper makes him start, 

Seeming to weep the dying day's decay ; 
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns? 
Ah ! surely nothing dies but something mourns! 



Some kinder casuists are pleased to say, 

In namelessprint — that I have no devotion; 
But set those persons down with me to pray, 

And you shall see who has the properest 
notion 
Of getting into heaven the shortest way ; 

My altars are the mountains and the ocean, 
Earth, air, stars — all that springs from the 

great Whole, 
Who hath produced, and will receive the soul. 

cv. 
Sweet hour of twilight ! — in the solitude 

Of the pine forest, and the silent shore 
Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, 

Rooted where once the Adrian waveflow'd 
o'er, 
To where the last Caesarean fortress stood, 

Evergreen forest! which Boccaccio's lore 
And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, 
How have I loved the twilight hour and thee ! 

cvi. 
The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, [song, 

Making their summer lives one ceaseless 
Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, 

And vesper bell's that rose the boughs along ; 
The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, 

His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair 
throng 
Which learn'd from this example not to fly 
From a true lover — shadow'd my mind's eye. 

cvu. 

Oh, Hesperus ! thou bringest all good things — 

Home to the weary, to the hungry cheer, 
To the young bird the parent's brooding 

wings, 
The welcome stall *o tbe r.'erlabour'd steer; 



When Nero perish 'd by the justest doom 
Which ever the destroyer yet destroy 'd, 

Amidst the roar of liberated Rome, 

Oi' nations freed, and the world overjoy'd, 

Some hands unseen strew'd flowers upon his 
tomb : 
Perhaps the weakness of a heart not void 

Or feeling for some kindness done, when power 

Had left the wretch an uncorrupted hour. 



But I 'm digressing; what on earth has Nero, 
Or any such like sovereign buffoons, 

To do with the transactions of my hero, 
More than such madmen's fellow man — the 
moon's ? 

Sure my invention must be down at zero, 
And I grown one of many " wooden spoons" 

Of verse (the name with which we Cantabs 
please 

To dub the last of honours in degrees). 



I feel this tediousness will never do — 
Tis being too epic, and I must cut down 

(In copying) this long canto into two ; 
They '11 never find it out, unless 1 own 

The fact, excepting some experienced few ; 
And then as an improvement 'twill be shown • 

I'll prove that such the opinion of the critic it 

From Aristotle passim. — See Uutirtnnt- 



372 



DON JUAN. 



Don 3uan. 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 



Nothing so difficult as a beginning 
In poesy, unless perhaps the end ; 

For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning 
The race, he sprains a wing, and down wt 
tend, [ning ; 

Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sin 
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend, 

Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too 
far, 

1 dl our own weakness shows us what we are. 

ii. 
But Time, which brings all beings to their level. 

And sharp Adversity, will teach at last 
Man, — and, as we would hope, — perhaps the 
devil, 
That neither of their intellects are vast: 
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel, 
We know not this — the blood flows on too 
fast ; 
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean, 
We ponder deeply on each past emotion. 

in. 
As boy, I thought, myself a clever fellow, 

And wish'd that others held the same opinion; 

They took it up when my days grew more 

mellow, [nion. 

And other minds acknowledged my doini- 

Now my sere fancy " falls into the yellow 

Leaf," and Imagination droops her pinion 
And the sad truth which hovers o*er my desk 
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. 

IV. 

And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 

T is that 1 may not weep ; and if I weep, 
"I is that our nature cannot always bring 

Itself to apathy, for we must steep 
Our hearts first in the depths of 1 ,ethe's spring, 

E re what we least wish to behold will sleep : 
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx; 60 
A. mortal mother would on Letln fix. 

V. 
Some have accused me of a strange ne.lgn 

Against the creed and morals of the land, 
Ajid trace it in this poem every line : 

I don't pretend that I quite understand 



My own meaning when I would be very fine 
But the fact is that I have nothing plaini'd 
Unless it were to be a moment merry, 
A novel word in my vocabulary. 

VI. 

To the kind reader of our sober clime 
This way of writing will appear exotic ; 

Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme, 
Who sgng when chivalry was more Quixotic, 

And revell'd in the fancies of the time, 

True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, 
kings despotic ; 

But all these, save the last, being obsolete, 

I chose a modern subject as more meet 

VII. 

How I have treated it, I do not know ; 

Perhaps no better than they have treated me. 
Who have imputed such designs as show 

Not what they saw, but what they wish o 
to see- 
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so; 

This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free 
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear, 
And tells me to resume my story here. 

VIII 

Young Juan and his lady-love were left 
To their own hearts" most sweet society; 

Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft 

Withhisrnde scythe such gentle bosoms , he 

Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft, 
Though foe to love ; and yet they could not be 

Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring, 

Before one charm or hope had taken wing. 

IX. 

Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their 

Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to 
fail ; 
The blank grey was not made to blast their hah 

But like the climes that know nor snow noi 
hail 
They were all summei : lightning might assail 

And shiver them to ashes, but to trail 
A long and snake like life of dull decay 
Was not for them — they had too little clay. 

x. 
They were alone once more ; for them to lx 

Thus was anotner Eden ; they were nevs r 
Weary, unless when separate : the tree 

Cut from its forest root of years — the river 

Damm'd from its fountain — the child from tht 

knee [ever — 

And breast maternal wean'd at once foi 
Would wither less than these two torn apart , 
Aias! there is no instinct like the heart-— 



DON JUAN. 



373 



The heart — which may be broken: happy they ! 
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould, 

The precious porcelain of human clay, 

Break w ith the first fall : they can ne'er behold 

The long year link'd with heavy day on day, 
And all which must be borne, and never told ; 

While life's strange principle will often lie 

Deepest in those who long the most to die. 

xn. 
" Whom the gods love die young," was said 
of yore, 61 
And many deaths do they escape by this : 
The death of friends, and that which slays 
even more — 
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is, 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 
Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave 
Which men weep over may be meant to save. 

XIII. 

H;> idee and Juan thought not of the dead. 

The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd 
made for them : 
They found no fault with Time, save that he fled ; 

They saw not in themselves aught to con- 
demn : 
Each was the other's mirror, and but read 

Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem, 
And knew such brightness was but the reflection 
Of their exchanging glances of affection. 



The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch, 
The least glance better understood than 
words, [much ; 

Which still said all, and ne'er could say too 

A language, too. but like to that of birds, 
Known but to them, at least appearing such 

As but to lovers a true sense aflbrd.s ; 
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem 
absurd 
o those who have ceased to hear such, or 
ne er heard : 



All these were theirs, for they were children 
still, [been ; 

And children still they should have ever 
They were not made in the real world to fill 

A busy character in the dull scene, 
But like two beings born from out a rill, 

A nymph and her beloved, all unseen 
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers, 
And never know the weight of huinin hours. 



Moons changing had roU'd on, and changeles* 
found [jova 

Those their bright rise had lighted to such 
As rarely they beheld throughout then round ; 
Anil these were not of the vain kind which 
cloys, 
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound 
By the mere senses; and that which de- 
stroys 
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd 
A thing which each endearment more endear'd. 

XVII. 

Oh beautiful! and rare as beautiful! 

But theirs was love in which the uaina de- 
lights 
To lose itself, when the old world grows dull, 
And we are sick of its back sounds and 
sights, 
Intrigues, adventures of the common school, 
Its petty passions, marriages, and flights, 
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strum 

pet more, 
Whose husband only knows her not a wh — re. 

xviii. 

Hard words ; harsh truth ; a truth which many 
know. 

Enough. — The faithful and the fairy pair, 
Who never found a single hour too slow, 

What was it made them thus exempt from 
care ? 
Young innate feelings all have felt below, 

W r hich perish in the rest, but in them wtre 
Inherent ; what we mortals call romantic, 
And always envy, though we deem it frantic. 



This is in others a factitious state, 

An opium dream of too much youth and 
reading, 

But was in them their nature or their fate: 
No novels e'er had set their young hearts 
bleeding, [great, 

For Haidee's knowledge was by no means 
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding ; 

So that there was no reason for their loves 

More than for those of nightingales or doves. 



They gazed upon the sunset ; 't is an hour 
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes, 

For it had made them what they were: tha 

power [such skies. 

Of love had first j'erwhelm'd them fr'JW 



374 



DON JUAN. 



When happiness nad been their only dower, 

And twilight saw them link'd in passion's 

ties ; [that brought 

CharmVl with each other, all things chann'd 

The past still welcome as the present thought 



I know not why, but in^that hour to-night, 
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came, 

And swept, as 'twere, across their hearts' de- 
light, 
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame, 

When one is shook in sound, and one in sight ; 
And thus some boding flash'd through either 
frame, 

And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh, 

While one new tear arose in Haidec's eye. 

XXII. 

That large black prophet eye secm'd to dilate 
And follow far the disappearing sun, 

As if their last day of a happy date 

With his broad, bright, and dropping orb 
were gone ; 

Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate — 

He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none, 

His glance inquired of hers for some excuse 

For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse. 

XXIII. 

She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort 
Which makes not others smile ; then turn'd 
aside : 

Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short, 
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride ; 

When Juan spoke, too — it might be in .sport — 
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied — 

" If it should be so, — but — it cannot be — 

Or I at least shall not survive to see." 



Juan would question further, but she press'd 
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this, 

And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast, 
Defying augury with that fond kiss ; 

And no doubt of all methods 't is the best • 
Some people prefer wine — 't is not amiss ; 

I have tried both ; so those who would a part 
take, [heartache. 

May choose between the headache and the 

XXV. 

One of the two, according to your choice, 
Woman or wine, you '11 have to undergo ; 

Both maladies are taxes on our joys: 

But which to choose I really hardly know; 



And if I had to give a casting voice, 

For both sides I could many rea.-jons show 
And then decide, without great wrong to either 
It were much better tohavebotl than neither. 



Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other 
With swimming looks of speechless tender- 
ness, [brother, 

Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover. 
All that the best can mingle and express 

When two pure hearts are pour'd in one ano- 
ther, [less; 
And love too much, and yet can not love 

But almost sanctify the sweet excess 

By the immortal wish and power to bless. 



Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart, 
Why did they not then die ? — they had 
lived too long 

Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart ; 
Years could but bring them cruel things or 
wrong ; 

The world was not for them, nor the world's art 
For beings passionate as Sappho's song ; 

Love was born with them, in them, so intense, 

It was their very spirit — not a sense. 

XXVIII. 

They should have lived together deep in woods, 
Unseen as sings the nightingale : they were 

Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes 

Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and 
Care: 

How lonely every freeborn creature broods ! 
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair ; 

The eagle soars alone ; the gull and crow 

Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below. 

XXIX. 

Now pillow 'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep, 
Haidee and Juan their siesta took, 

A gentle slumber, but it was not deep, 
For ever and anon a something shook 

Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would 

creep ; [brook, 

And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a 

A wordless music, and her face so fair 

Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the 
air ; 



Or as the stirring of a deep clear stream 
Within an Alpine hollow, when the winu 

Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream, 
The ivystical usurper of the mind — 



DON JUAN. 



375 



O'erpowering us to !>e whale er may seem 
GikkI to the soul which we no more can 
bind ; 
Strange state of being ! (for 't is still to be) 
Senseless to feel, and with seal"d eyes to see. 



She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore, 
Chain'd to a rock ; she knew not how, but 
stir 
She could not fror the spot, and the loud roar 
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threat- 
ening her ; 
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour, 
Untii she sobb'd for breath, and soon they 
were [high — 

Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and 
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not 
die. 

XXXII. 

\non — she was released, and then she stray'd 
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding 
feet, 

And stumbled almost every step she made : 
And something roll'd before her in a sheet, 

Which she mu^t still pursue howe'er afraid : 
T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to 
meet [grasp'd, 

Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed and 

And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd. 

XXXIII. 

The dream changed: — in a cave she stood, its 
walls 
Where hung with marble icicles ; the work 
Of ages on its water-fretted halls, 

Where waves might wash, and seals might 

breed and lurk , 

Her hair was dripping, and the very balls 

Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, 

and mirk [caught. 

The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they 

Which froze to marble as it fell, — she thought. 

XXXIV. 

And wet, ant: cold, and lifeless at her feet, 
Pale as lj>3 foam that froth'd on his dead 
brow, [sweet 

W~hich she essay'd in vain to clear, (how 
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they 
now !) 
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat 
Of his quench'd heart : and t::e sea dirges 
low 
Jiang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song, 
And that brief dream appear 'd a life too long. 



XXXV. 

And gazing on the dead, she thought his f'aca 
Faded, or alter'd into something new — 

Like to her father's features, till each trace 
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew- - 

With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace: 
And starting, she awoke, and what to view? 

Oh! Powers of Heaven ! what dark eye meet* 
she there? 

'T is — 't is her father's — fix'd upon the pair ! 



Then shrieking, «he arose, and shrieking fell. 

With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see 
Him whom she dcem'd a habitant where dwell 

The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be 
Perchance the death of one she loved too well • 

Dear as her father had been to Haidee, 

It was a moment of that awful kind 

I have seen such — but must not call to mind. 

XXXVII. 

Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek, 
And caught her falling, and from off' the 
wall 
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak 
Vengeance on him who was the cause 01 
all: 
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak, 
Smiled scornfully, and said, " Within my 
call, 
A thousand scimitars await the word ; 
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.' 

XXXVIII. 

And Haidee clung around him ; " Juan, 't is — 
"T is Lambro — 't is my father ! Kneel witb 
me — 

He will forgive us — yes — it must he — yes. 
Oh ! dearest father, in this agony 

Of pleasure and of pain — even while I kiss 
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be 

That doubt should mingle with my filial joy ? 

Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy." 

XXXIX. 

High and inscrutable the old man stood, 

Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye- 
Not always signs with him of calmest mood : 

He look'd upon her, but gave no reply : 
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood 
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die ; 
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring 
On the first foe whom Lambro's call mighl 
bring. 



376 



DON JUAN. 



" Young man, your sword ;" so Lambro once 
more said : 
Juan replied, " Not while this arm is free." 
he old man's cheek grew pale, but not with 

dread, 
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he 
Replied, " Your blood be then on your own 
head." 
Then look'd close at the flint, as if to see 
T was fresh — for he had lately used the lock — 
And next proceeded quietly to cock. 

XLI. 

It has a strange quick jar upon the ear, 
That cocking of a pistol, when you know 

A moment more will bring the sight to bear 
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so; 

A gentlemanly distance, not too near, 
If you have got a former friend for foe; 

But after being fired at once or twice, 

The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice. 

XLII. 

Lambro presented, and one instant more 
Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's 
breath, 
When Haidee threw herself her boy before ; 
Stern as her sire : " On me," she cried, " let 
death 
Descend—the fault is mine ; this fatal shore 
He found — but sought hot. I have pledged 
hi/ faith ; 
I love him — I will die with him: I knew 
Your nature's firinness — kuow your daughter's 
too." 

XLIII. 

A minute past, and she had been all tears, 
And tenderness, and infancy ; but now 

She stood as one who champion' d human 

fears — [blow ; 

Pale, statue-like, and stern, she wood the 

And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers, 
She drew up to her height, as if to show 

A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd 

Her father's face — but never stopp'd his hand. 

XLIV. 

He gazed on her, and she on him ; 't was 
strange [the same ; 

How like they look'd ! the expression was 
Serenely savage, with a little change 

In the large dark eye'smutual-darted flame; 
For she, too, was as one who could avenge, 

If cause should be — a lioness, though tame^ 
Her father's blood before her father's face 
Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race. 



I said they were alike, their features and 
Their stature, differing but in sex and years; 

Even to the delicacy of their hand 

There was resemblance, such as true blood 
wears ; 

And now to see them, thus divided, stand 
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears, 

And sweet sensations, should have welcomed 
both, [growth 

Show what the passions are in their full 

XI. VI. 

The father paused a moment, then withdrew 
His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still 

And looking on her, as to look her through. 
" Not I," he said, " have sought this 
stranger's ill ; 

Not I have made this desolation: few 

Would bear such outrage, and forbear tc 
kill ; 

But I must do my duty — how thou hast 

Done thine, the present vouches for the past. 



" Let him disarm; or by my father's head, 
His own shall roll before you like a ball!" 

He raised his whistle, as the word he said, 
And blew, another answer'd to the call, 

And rushing in disorderly, though led, 

And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all, 

Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank; 

He gave Lhe word,—" Arrest or slay the Frank." 



Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew 
His daughter; while compress'd within his 
clasp, 

'T wixt her and Juan interposed the crew ; 
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp — 

His arms were like a serpent's coil : then new 
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp, 

The file of pirates ; save the foremost, who 

Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cul 
through. 

XLIX. 

The second had his cheek laid open ; but 
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took. 

The blows upon his cutlass, and then put 
His own well in ; so well, ere you could loo'g 

His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot 
With the blood running like a little brook 

From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red — 

One on the arm, the other on the head 



DON JUAN. 



377 



And then they bound him where he fell, and 
bore 
Juan from the apartment: with a sign 
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore, 
Where lay some ships which were to sail 
at nine. 
l'hey laid him in a boat, and plied the oar 
Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in 
line; 
On board of one of these, and under hatches, 
l'hey stow'd him, with strict orders to the 
watches. 

li. 
The world is full of strange vicissitudes, 

And here was one exceedingly unpleasant: 
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods, 

Handsome and young, enjoying all the 
present. 
Just at the very time when he least broods 

On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent, 
Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move, 
And all because a lady fell in love. 



Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic, 
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, 
green tea ! 

Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic ; 
For if my pure libations exceed three, 

I feel my heart become so sympathetic, 

That I must have recourse to black Bohea: 

T is pity wine should be so deleterious, 

For tea and coffee leave us much more serious. 



Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac ! 

Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill ! 
Ah ! why the liver wilt thou thus attack, 

And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill ? 
I would take refuge in weak punch, bit rack 

(In each sense of the word), whene er I fill 
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim, 
Wakes me next morning with its synonym. 



I leave Don Juan for the present safe — 
Notsound,poor feaow, butsevereW wounded ; 

Vet could his corporal pangs amount to half 
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom 
bounded ! 

She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe, 
And then give way, subdued because sur- 
rounded ; 

I Ifr mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez, 

Where all is Eden, or a wilderness. 



LV. 

There the large olive rains its amber store 
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, 
and fruit, 

Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er; 
But there, too, many a poison-tree has toot, 

And midnight listens to the lion's roar, 

And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot 

Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan; 

And as the soii is, so the heart of man. 



Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth 

Her human clay is kindled; full of power 

For good or evil, burning from its birth, 
The Moorish blood partakes theplanet's hour, 

And like the soil beneath it will bring forth : 
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's 
dower; [force, 

B •.. her large dark eye show 'd deep Passion's 

Though sleeping like a lion near a source. 



Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray, 
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth* and 
fair, 

Till slowly charged with thunder they display 
Terror to earth, and tempest, to the air, 

Had held till now her soft and milkv way ; 
But overwrought with passion and despair, 

The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins, 

Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains. 

LV1II. 

The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore, 

And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut dawn; 

His blood was running on the very floor 

^ Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own; 

Thus much she view'd an instant and no 

more,— [groan 

Her struggles ceased with one convulsive 

Cn her sire's arm. which until now scarce held 

Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd. 



A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes 
Were dabbled with the deep blood which 
ran o'er; 
And her head droop'd as when the lily lies 
O'ercharged with rain : her summon 'd hand- 
maids bore 
Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes ; 
Of herbs and cordials they produced' theii 
store, 
But she defied all means they could employ. 
Like one life ?oukl not hold, nor death destroy 



378 



DON JUAN. 



LX. 
Days lay she in that state unchanged, though 
chill— 

With nothing livid, still her lips were red ; 
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still; 

No hideous sign proclaini'd her surely dead; 
Corruption came not in each mind to kill 

All hope ; to look upon her sweet face bred 
New thoughts ot'life, for it seem'd full of soul — 
She had so much, earth could not claim the 
whole. 

LXI. 
The ruling passion, such as marble, shows 

When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there, 
But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws 

O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair; 
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes, 

And ever-dying Gladiator s air, 
Their energy like life forms all their fame, 
Vet looks n«>t life, for they are still the same. — 

LXII. 

She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake, 
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something 
new, 

A strange sensation which she must partake 
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view 

Struck not her memory, though a heavy ache 

Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still 

true [cause, 

Brought back the sense of pain without the 

For, for a while, the furies made a pause. 



She look'd on many a face with vacant eye, 
On many a token without knowing what; 

She saw them watch her without asking why; 
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat ; 

Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a 

sigh [quick chat 

Relieved her thoughts ; dull silence and 

Were tried in vain by those who served; she 
gave 

No sign, save breath, of having left the grave. 

LXIV. 

Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not; 

Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away ; 
She recognised no being, and no spot, 

However dear or cherish'd in their day; 
T.*ey changed from room to room, but all for 
got, 

Gentle, but without memory she lay ; 
At length those eyes, which they would fain 
be weaning [meaning. 

Back to old thoughts, wax d full of fearful 



And then a slave bethought her of a harp ; 

The harper came, and tuned his instrument 
At the first notes, irregular and sharp, 

On him her flashing eyes a moment bent, 
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp 

Her thoughts from sorrow through her heal - 
re-sent ; 
And he begun a long low island song 
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong 

LXVI. 

Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall 
In time to his old tune; he changed the 
theme, [through all 

And sung of love; the fierce name struck 
Her recollection, on her fiash'd the dream 

Of what she was, and is, if ye could call 
To be so being; in a gushing stream 

The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded 
brain. [rain. 

Like mountain mists at length dissolved in 

I.XVII. 

Shoi . solace, vain relief ! — thought came too 
quick, 

And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose 
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick , 

And flew at all she met, as on her foes; 
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek. 

Although her paroxysm drew towards its 
close ; — 
Hers was a frenzy which disdain'd to rave, 
Even when they smote In r, in the hope to save. 

LXVIII. 

Yet .Oie betray \1 at times a gleam of sense ; 

Nothing could make her meet her father's 
face, 
Though on all other things with looks intense 

She gazed, but none she ever could retrace; 
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence 

Avail'd for either; neither change of place, 
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her 
Senses to sleep — the power seem'd gone for 
ever. 

LXIX. 

Twelve days and nights she wither 'd thus; at 
last: 

Without a groan, cr sigh, or glance, to show 
A parting pang, the spirit from her past: 

And they who watch'd her nearest could not 
know 
The very instant, till the change that cast 

Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow. 
Glazed o'er her eyes — the beautiful, the bJacb— 
Oh! to possess such lustre — and then lack' 



DON JUAN. 



379 



She died, but not aione; she held within 
A second principle of life, which might 

Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin; 
But closed its little being without light, 

And went down to the grave unborn, wherein 
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one 
blight; 

In vain the dews of Heaven descend above 

The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love. 

LXXI. 

Thus lived — thus died she ; never more on her 

Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not 

made [bear, 

Through years or moons the inner weight to 
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid 

By age in earth: her days and pleasures were 
B.ief, but delightful — such as had not staid 

Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well 

By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell. 

LXXI I. 

That isle is now all desolate and bare, 

Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away; 

None but her own and father's grave is there, 
And nothing outward tells of human clay; 

Ve could not know where lies a thing so fair, 
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say 

What was ; no dirge, except the hollow sea's, 

Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyelades. 

LXXIIl. 

Hut many a Greek maid in a loving song 
Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander 

With her sire's story makes the night less long; 
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her: 

[f she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong — 
A. heavy price must all pay who thus err, 

I n some shape ; let none think to fly the danger, 

For soon or late Love is his own avenger. 

LXXIV. 

But let ne change this theme, which grows 
too sad, 

And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf; 
I don't much like describing people mad, 

For fear of seeming rather touch' d myself — 
Resides, I 've no more on this head to add ; 

And as my Muse is a capricious elf, 
We '11 put about, and try another tack 
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back. 

LXXV. 

Wounded and fetter'd, " cabin'd, cribb d, con- 
fined," 

Some days and nights elapsed before that he 
Could altogether call the past to mind ; 

And when he did, he found himself at sea, 



Sailing six knots an hour before the wind ; 

The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee — 
Another time he might have liked to see 'tan, 
But now was not much pleased with Cape 
Sigauim 

LXXVI. 
There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is 

(Flank'd by the Hellespont, and by the sea) 
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave Achilies , 

They say so — (Bryant says the contrary) ; 
And furthor downward, tall and towering 
still, is [ t may be 

The tumulus — of whom ? Heaven knows ; 
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus ; 
All heroes, who if living still would slay us 

LXXVII. 

High baiTOws, without marble, or a name, 
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain 

And Ida in the distance, still the same, 
And old Scamander, (if 't is he) remain , 

The situation seems still form'd for fame — 
A hundred thousand men might fight again 

With ease; but where 1 sought for Ilion's 
walls 

The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls. , 

LXXVIII 

Troops of untended horses ; here and there 
Some little hamlets, with new names un- 
couth : 
Some shepherds, (unlike Paris) led to stare 

A moment at the European youth 
Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings 
bear ; [mouth. 

A Turk, with beads in hand, and pipe in 
Extremely taken with his own religion, 
Are what I found there — but the devil aP'nry- 
gian. 

LXXIX. 

Don Juan, here permitted to emerge 

From his dull cabin, found himself a slave; 

Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge, 
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave ; 

Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could 
urge 
A few brief questions ; and the answers gavt 

No very satisfactory information 

About his past or present situation 

LXXX. 

He saw some fellow captives, who appear 'd 
To be Italians, as they were in fact ; 

From them, at least, their destiny he heard, 
Which was an odd one ; a troop g<4r 
act 



380 



DON JUAN. 



In Sicily— all singers, duly rear'd 

In their vocation ; had not heen attack'd 
In sailing from Livorno by the pirate, 
But sold by the impresario at no high rate. 

LXXXI. 

By one of these, the buffo of the party, 
Juan was told about their curious case ; 

For although destined to the Turkish mart, he 
Still kept his spirits up — at least his face ; 

The little fellow really look'd quite hearty. 
And bore him with some gaiety and grace, 

Showing a much more reconciled demeanour, 

Than did the prima donna and the tenor. 

Lxxxri. 
In a few words he told their hapless story, 

Saying, " Our Machiavelian impresario, 
Making a signal off some promontory, 

Hail'd a strange brig; Corpo di Caio Mario! 
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry, 

Without a single scudo of salario ; 
But if the Sultan has a taste for song, 
We will revive our fortunes before long. 

LXXXIII. 

' Tha prima donna, though a little old, 
And haggard with a dissipated life, 

And subject, when the house is thin, to cold, 
Has some good notes ; and then the tenor's 
wi fe, 

With no great voice, is pleasing to behold ; 
Last carnival she made a deal of strife 

By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna 

From an old Roman princess at Bologna 

LXXXIV. 

" And then there are the dancer ; there 's the 
Nini, 

With more than one profession gains by all ; 
Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini, 

She. too, was fortunate last carnival, 
And made at least five hundred good zecchini, 

But spends so fast, she has not now a paid ; 
And then there 's the Grotesca — such a ' 
dancer ! [answer. 

Where men have souls or bodies she must 

LXXXV. 

"As for the figuranti, they are like 

The rest of all that tribe ; with here and there 

A pretty person, which perhaps may strike, 
The rest are hardly fitted for a fair ; 

There's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike. 
Yet has a sentimental kind of air 

Which might go far, but she don't dance with 
vigour ; 

The more 's the pity, with her fa^e and figure. 



LXXXVl. 

"As for the men, they are a middling set. 

The musico is but a crack'd old basin, 
But being qualified in one way yet, 

May the seraglio do to set his face in, 
And as a servant some preferment get ; 

Plis singing I no further trust can place in 
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplea 
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex 

LXXXVII. 

" The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, 
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow ; 

In fact, he had no singing education, 

An ignorant,noteless,timeless,tuneless fellow, 

But being the prima donna's near relation, 
Who swore his voice was very rich and 
mellow, [believe 

They hired him, though to hear him you 'd 

An ass was practising recitative. 

LXXXVIII. 

" 'T would not become myself to dwell upon 
My own merits, and though young, — I see, 
• Sir — you 
Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one 

To whom the opera is by no means new : 
You 've heard of Raucocanti ? — I 'm the man ; 
The time may come when you may hear 
me too: 
You was not last year at the fair of Lugo, 
But next, when I'm engaged to sing there — 
do go. 

LXXXIX. 

"Our baritone I almost had forgot, 

A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit: 

With graceful action, science not a jot, 

A voice of not great compass, and not sweet, 

He always is complaining of his lot, 

Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street; 

In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe, 

Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth." 

xc. 
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital 

Was interrupted by the pirate crew, 
Who came at stated moments to invite all 

The captives back to their sad berths ; each 

threw [all 

A rueful glance upon the waves, (which bright 

From the blue skies derived a double blue, 
Dancing all free and happy in the sun,) 
And then went down the hatchway one by one. 

xci. 
They heard next day — that in the Dardanelles, 

Waiting for his Sublimity's firman, 
The most imperative of sovereign spells, 

Which every body does without who can 



DON JUAN. 



381 



More to serine them in their naval cells, 

Lady to lady, well as man to man, 
Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple 
Foi the slave market of Constantinople. 
XCII 

It seems when this allotment was made out, 
There chanced to be an odd male, and odd 
female, 

Who (after some discussion and some doubt, 
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male, 

They placed him o'er the women as a scout) 
[Were link d together.and ithappen'd the male 

Was Juan,- — who, an awkward thing at his age, 

Pair'd od' with a bacchante blooming visage. 

XCIII. 

With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd 

The tenor; these two hated with a hate 
Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd 

With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate 
Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd, 

Instead of bearing up without debate, 
That each pull'd different ways with many an 

oath, 
" Arcades ainbo," id est — blackguards both. 

xciv. 
Juan's companion was a Romagnole, 

But bred within the march of old Ancona, 
With eyes that look'd into the very soul 

(And other chief points of a " bella donna"), 
Bright — and as black and burning as a coal; 

And through her clear brunette complexion 
shone a 
Great wish to please — a most attractive dower, 
Especially when added to the power. 

xcv. 
But all that power was wasted upon him, 

For sorrow o'er each sense held stern com- 
mand; 
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim; 

And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand 
Touch'd his, nor that — nor any handsome limb 

(And she had some not easy to withstand) 
Could stir his pulse, or mcike his faith feel 

brittle, 
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little. 

xcvi. 
No matter ; we should n«? s: too much inquire, 

But facts are facts: no taught could be more 
true. 
And firmer faith no ladye-love desire ; 

We will omit the proofs, save one or two : 
T is said no one in hand " can hold a fire 

By thought of frosty Caucasus ;" but few, 
I really think ; yet Juan's then ordeal 
Was raor3 triumphant, and not much less real. 



XCVI). 

Here I might enter on a chu»t€ description, 

Having withstood temptation in my youth, 
But hear that several people take exception 

At the first two books having too much truth , 
Therefore I '11 make Don Juan leave the ship 
soon, 

Because the publisher declares, in sooth, 
Through needles' eyes it easier for the came] is 
To pass, than those two cantos into families. 

xcvm. 
T is all the same to me ; I 'm fond of yielding, 

And therefore leave them to the purer page 
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding, 

Who say strange things for so correct an ago ; 
I once had great alacrity in wielding 

My pen, and liked poetic war to wage, 
And recollect the time when all this cant 
Would have provoked remarks which now it 
shan't. 

XCIX. 

As boy s We rows, my boyhood liked a squabble , 

But at this hour I wish to part in peace, 
Leaving such to the literary rabble, 

Whrther my verse's fame be doom'd to cease, 
While the right hand which wrote it still is able, 

Or of some centuries to ti ke a lease ; 
The grass upon my grave will grow as long, 
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song. 

c. 
Of poets who come down to us through dis- 
tance [Fame, 

Of time and tongues, the foster-babe.4 of 
Life seems the smallest portion of existence, 

Where twenty ages gather o'er a natne, 
T is as a snowball which derives assistance 

From every flake, and yet rolls on the same, 
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow; 
But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow. 

ci. 
And so great names are nothing more than 
nominal, 

And love of glory 's but an airy lust, 
Too often in its fury overcoming all 

Who would as 'twere identify their dust 
From out the wide destruction, which entomb 
ing all, [J Usl ' — 

Leaves nothing till " the coming of the 
Save change : 1 've stood upon Achilles' tomb, 
And heard Troy doubted ; time will doubt of 
Rome. 

en. 
The very generations of the dead 

Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb, 
Until the memory of an age is fled, [doom. 

And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring'! 



382 



DON JUAN. 



Where are the epitaphs our fathers read ? 
Save a lew gknn'd from the sepulchral 
gloom [neath, 

Which once named myriads nameless lie be- 
And lose their own in universal death. 

cm. 

1 canter by the spot each afternoon 

Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy, 

Who lived too long for men, but died too soon 
For human vanity, the young De Foix ' 

A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn, 

But which neglect is hastening to destroy, 

Records Ravenna's carnage on its face, 

While A'eeds and ordure rankle round thebase. 



I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid: 
A little cupola, more neat than solemn, 

Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid 
To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's 
co.umn : 

The time must come, when both alike decay 'd, 
The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume, 

Will sink where lie the songs and wars of 
earth. 

Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth. 

cv. 

With human blood that column was cemented, 
With human filth that column is defiled, 

As if the peasant's coarse contempt were 
vented 
To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd: 

Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented 
Should ever be those bloodhounds, from 
whose wild 

Instinct of gore and glory earth has known 

Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone 



Yet there will still be bards : though fame is 
smoke, [thought ; 

Its fumes are frankincense to human 
And the unquiet feelings, which first woke 
Song in the world, will seek what then they 
sought; 
As on the beach the waves at last are broke, 
Thus to their extreme verge the passions 
brought 
Dash into poetry, whic.. *s one passion, 
Or at least was so ere it grew a passion. 



If in the course of such a life as was 
At once adventurous and contemplative, 

Men who partake all passions as they pass, 
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give 



Their images aga n as in a glass, 

And in such co.ours that th^y seein u. live; 
You may do right forbidding them to show 'cm, 
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem. 

cvm. 
Oh ! ye, who make the fortunes of all books ' 

Benign Ceraleans of the second sex! 
Who advertise new poems by your looks, 
Your " imprimatur" will ye not annex ? 
What! must I go to the oblivious cooks? 
Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian 
wrecks ? 
Ah ! must I then the only minstrel be, 
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea ! 

cix. 
What! can I prove " a lion" then no more? 
A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press 
darling? 
To bear the compliments of many a bore, 
And sigh, " I can't get out," like Yorick's 
starling ; 
Why then I '11 swear, as poet Wordy swore, 
(Because the world won't read him, always 
snarling) 
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery. 
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie. 

ex. 
Oh! " darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," 

As some one somewaere sings about the sky , 
And I Tye learned ladies, say cf you; 

They say your stockings arc so — (Heaven 
knows why, 
I have examined few pair of that hue) ; 
Blue as the garters which serenely lie 
Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn 
The festal midnight, and the levee morn. 

CXI. 

Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures— 
But times are alter 'd since, a rhyming lovei 

You read my stanzas, and I read your features 
And — but no matter, all those things an 
over; 

Still I have no dislike to learned natures, 
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover 

I knew one woman of that purple school, 

The loveliest, chastest, best, but — quite a fool. 

CXII. 

Humboldt, " the first of travellers,' but apt 
The last, if late accounts be accurate, 

Invented, by some name I have forgot, 
As well as the sublime discovery's date. 

An airy instrument, with which he sought 
To ascertain the atmospheric state, 

By measuring " the i>itensitu of bhie ;" 

Oh, Lady Daphne! let me measure you! 



DON JUAN. 



•383 



CXIIl. 

But to the narrative: — The vessel bound 
With slaves to sell ofi' in the capital, 

Alter the usual process, might be found 
At anchor under the seraglio wall ; [sound, 

Her cargo, from the plague being safe and 
Were landed in the market 61 , one and all, 

And there with Georgians, Russians, and 
Circassians, 

Bought up for different purposes and passions. 



Some went off dearly ; fifteen hundred dollars 
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given, 

Warranted virgin ; beauty's brightest colours 
Haddeck'dherout in all the hues of heaven: 

Her salesenthome some disappointed bawlers, 
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd 
eleven ; 62 

But when the offer went beyond, they knew 

"I'was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew. 



Twelve negresscs from Nubia brought a price 

Which the West Indian market scarce 

could bring ; [twice 

Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it 
"What t' was ere Abolition ; and the thing 

Need not seem very wonderful, for vice 
Is always much more splendid than a king : 

The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity, 

Are saving — vice spares nothing for a rarity. 

CXVI. 

But for the destiny of this young troop, 
How some were bought by pachas, some 
by Jews, 

How some to burdens were obliged to stoop, 
And others rose to the. command of crews 

As renegadoes; while in hapless group, 
Hoping no very old vizier might choose, 

The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 
'em, 

To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim: 

CXYII. 

All this must be reserved for further song; 

Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant, 
(Because this Canto has become too long), 

Must be postponed discreetly for the present ; 
T .'m sensible redundancy is wrong, [in't: 

But could not for the muse of me put less 
And now delay the progress of Don Juan, 
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Duan. 



Bon 3(uan. 



CANTO THE FIFTH. 



When amatory poets sing their loves 

In liquid lines mellifluously bland, [doves 
And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes he? 

They little think what mischief is in hand, 
The greater their success the worse it proves, 

As Ovid's verse may give to understand ; ' 
Even Petrarch's self, if judged with due 

severity, 
Is the Platonic pimp of all posterity. 

II. 
I therefore do denounce all amorous writing, 

Except in such a way as not to attract ; 
Plain — simple — short, and by no means 
inviting, 

But with a moral to each error tack'd, 
Form'd rather for instructing than delighting, 

And with all passions in their turn attack d'. 
Now, if my Pegasus should net be shod ill, 
This poem will become a moral model. 

in. 
The European with the Asian shore 

Sprinkled with palaces ; the ocean stream 
Here and there studded with a seventy-four ; 

Sophia's cupola with golden gleam ; 
The cypress groves; Olympus high and hoar, 

The twelve isles, and the more than I could 
dream, 
Far less describe, present the very view 
Which charm'd the chaining Mary Mon- 
tagu.63 

IV 

I have a passion for the name of " Mary,' 

For once it was a magic sou id .o me ; 
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, 

Where I beheld what never was to be ; 
Ali feelings changed, but this was last to vary 
A spell from which even yet lam not quite 
free : 
But I grow sad — and let a tale grow cold, 
Which must not be pathetically told. 

v. 
The wind swept down the Euxine, and the 
wave 
Broke foaming o'er the blue Symplegadcs 
Tis a grand sight from off ""the Giant'» 
Grave" 64 
To watch the progress of those oiling •>•*« 



384 



DON JUAN. 



Between thcBosphorus, as they lash and lave 

Europe and Asia, you being quite at ease; 
There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, 
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the 
Euxine. 



*T was arawdayof Autumn's bleak beginning, 

When nights are equal, but not so the days; 

The Parcm then cut short the further spinning 

Of seamen's fates, and the loud tempests 

raise 

The waters, and repentance for past sinning 

In all, who o'er the great deep take their 

ways: [don't; 

They vow to amend their lives, and yet they 

Because if drown'd, they can't — if spared, 

♦K«. v won't. 

VII. 

A crowd of shivering slaves of every natioi. 
And age, and sex, were in the market 

ranged ; 
Each bevy with the merchant in his station : 
Poor creatures ! their good looks were sadly 

changed. 
All save the blacks seem'd jaded with vexation, 
From friends, and home, and freedom far 

estranged ; 
The negroes more philosophy display'd, — 
Used to it. no doubt, as eels are to be flay'd. 

VIII. 

Juan was juvenile, and thus was full, 

As most at his age are, of hope, and health; 

Yet I must own, he look'd a little dull, 
And now and then a tear stole down 
by stealth ; 

Perhaps his recent loss of blood might pull 
His spirit down ; and then the loss of wealth, 

A mistress, and such comfortable quarters, 

To be put up for auction amongst Tartars, 



Like a backgammon board the place was dotted 
With whites and blacks, in groups on show 
for sale, 

Though rather more irregularly spotted : 
Some bought the jet, while others chost 
the pale. 

It chanced amongst the other people lotted 
A man of thirty, rather stout and hale, 

With resolution in his dark grey eye, 

Next Juan stood, till some might choose to buy. 

XI. 

He had an English look; that is, was square 
In make, of a complexion white and ruddy, 

Good teeth, with curling rather dark brown 

hair, [*>tudy. 

And, it might be from thought, or toil, ur 

An open brow a little mark'd with care 
One arm had on a bandage rather bloody ; 

And there he stood with such sang-froid, that 
greater 

Could scarce be shown even by a mere spectator 

XII. 

But peeing at his elbow a mere lad, 
Of a high spirit evidently, though 

At present weigh'd down by a doom which had 
O'erthrown even men, he soon began 10 
show 

A kind of blunt compassion for the sad 
Lot of so young a partner in the woe. 

Which for himself he seem'd to deem no worse 

Than any other scrape, a thing of course. 

xm. 

•' My boy !" — said he, " amidst this motley 
crew [ not, 

Of Georgians, Russians, Nubians, and what 
All ragamuffins differing but in hue, 

With whem it is our luck to cast our lot, 
The only gentlemen seem I and you ; 

So let us be acquainted, as we ought . 
If I could yield you any eonsolation, 
'T would give me pleasure. — Pray, what is 
vour natitn?" 



Wore things to shake a stoic; ne'ertheless, 
Upon the whole his carriage was serene : 

His figure, and the splendour of his dress, 
Of which some gilded remnants still were 
seen, 

Drew all eyes on him, giving them to guess 
He was above the vulgar by his mien ; 

And then, though pale, he was so very hand- 
some ; 

And then — they calculated on his ransom. 



When Juan answer'd — " Spanish !" he replied, 
" I thought, in fact, you could not be a 
Greek ; 

Those servile dogs are not so proudly eyed: 
Fortune has play'd you here a pretty freak, 

But that's her way with all men, till they're 

tried ; [week ; 

But never mind, — she'll turn, perhaps, nest 

She has served me also much the same as yon 

Except that I have found it nothing new " 



DON JUAN. 



385 



XV. 

'• Pray, sir," said Juan, " if I may presume, 

What brought you here?" — " Oh! nothing 

very rare — [this doom 

Six Tartars and a drag-chain " — " To 

But what conducted, if the question's fair. 

Is that which I would learn. ' — '' I served for 

some [there, 

Months with the Russian army here and 

h~\& taking lately, by Suwarrow's bidding, 

i town, was ta'en myself instead of Wid- 

din." 65 



xvi. 

Have you no friends ?"- 
God's blessing, 



I had — but, by 

[Now 

Have not been troubled with them lately. 

* lave answer'd all your questions without 

pressing, 

And you an equal courtesy should show." 

Alas !" saidJimn, " 'twere a tale distressing, 

And long besides." — " Oh! if 'tis really so, 

fou're right on both accounts to hold your 

tongue ; 
A sad tale saddens doublv, when 'tis long. 



' But droop not : Fortune at your time of 
life, 

Although a female moderately fickle, 
Will hardly leave you (as she's not your wife) 

For any length of days in such a pickle. 
To strive, too, with our fate were such a strife 

As if the corn-sheaf should oppose U»e 
sickle : 
Men are the sport of circumstances, when 
The circumstances seem the sport of men." 



XVIII. 

Juan, 



" 'Tis not," said Juan, " for my present 
doom [maid:" — 

I mourn, but for the past; — I loved a 
He paused, and his dark eye grew full of 
gloom ; 

A single tear upon his eyelash staid 
A moment, and then dropp'd ; " but to resume, 

'T is not my present lot, as I have said, 
\\ hich I deplore so much ; for I have borne 
Hardships which have the hardiest overworn, 

XIX. 

" On the rough deep. But this last blow — ' 
and here 
He stopp'd again, and turn'd away his face. 
" Av." quoth his friend, " I thought it would 
appear 
That there bad been a lady in the case ; 



And these are things which ask a tender lew 
Such as I. too, would shed if in yourp'ace. 
I cried upon my first wife's dying day, 
And also when my second ran away : 
xx. 

" My third " — " Your third !" quoth 

Juan, turning round ; [three?" 

" You scarcely can be thirty : have you 
" No — only two at present above ground : 

Surely 'tis nothing wonderful to see 
One person thrice in holy wedlock bound !" 
"Well, then, your third," said Juan; 
" what did she? 
She did not run away, too, — did she, sir ?" 
'■ No, faith." — " What then?" — " I ran away 
from her." 

XXI. 

" You take things coollv, sir," said Juan 
" W T hy," ■ 

Replied the other, " what can a man do? 
There still are many rainbows in your sky, 

But mine have vanish'd. All, when life is 

new, [ high ; 

Commence with feelings warm, and prospects 

But time strips our illusions of their hue, 
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake 
Casts off its bright skin yearly lite the snakt 

XXII. 

" 'Tis true, it gets another bright aud fresh, 
Or fresher, brighter; but the year gone 
through, 

This skin must go the way, too, of all flesh, 
Or sometimes only wear a week or two: — 

Love 's the first net which spreads its deadly 
mesh; 
Ambition, Avarice, Vengeance, Glory, glue 

The glittering lime-twigs of our latter days, 

Where still we flutter on for pence or praise." 

XXIII. 

" All this is very fine, and may be true," 
Said Juan ; " but I really don't see how 

It betters present times with me or you." 
" No?" quoth the other; " yet you vnVt 
allow 

By setting things in their right point of view. 
Knowledge, at least, is gain'd; for instance, 
now, 

We know what slavery is, and our disasters 

May teach us better to behave when masters." 

XXIV. 

" Would we were masters now, if but to try 
Their present lessons on our Pa'an friends 
here," 
Said Juan, — swallowing a heart-burning sigh 
" Heaven help the scholar whom his fra 
tune sends here !" 



26 



2 c 



386 



DON JUAN. 



" Perhaps we shall be one day, by and by," 

Rejoin'd the other, " when our bad luck 

mends here ; L e .V e us ) 

Meantime (yon old black eunuch seems to 

f wish to G — d that somebody would buy us. 

XXV. 

' But after all, what is our present state ? 

Tis bad, and may be better — all men's lot. 

Most men are slaves, none more so than the 

great, [not; 

To their own whims and passions, and what 
Society itself, which should create 

Kindness, destroys what little we had got: 
To feel for none is the true social art 
Of the world's stoics — men without a heart." 

XXVI. 

Just now a black old neutral personage 

Of the third sex stept up; and peering over 

The captives seem'd to mark their looks and 
age, 
And capabilities, as to discover 

If they were fitted for the purposed cage: 
No lady e'er is ogled by a lover, 

Horse by a blackleg, broadcloth by a tailor, 

Fee by a counsel, felon by a jailor, 

XXVII. 

As is a slave by his intended bidder. 615 

'Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-crea- 
tures ; 
And all are to be sold, if you consider 

Their passions, and are dext'rous; some by 
features 
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader, 
Some by a place — as tend their years or 
natures ; 
The most by ready cash — but all have prices, 
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices. 

XXVIII. 

The eunuch having eyed them o'er with care 
Turn'd to the merchant, and begun to bid 

First but for one, and after for the pair; 
They haggled, wrangled, swore, too — so 
they did ! 

As though they were in a mere Christian fair 
Cheapening an ox, an ass, a lamb, or kid; 

St) lhat their bargain sounded like a battle 

For this superior yoke of human cattle. 

XXIX. 

At 1 ist they settled into simpie grumbling, 
And pulling out reluctant purses, and 

Turning each piece of silver o'er, and tumbling 
Some down, and weighing others in their 
hand, 



And by mistake sequins r > 7 with paras jumbling, 

Until the sum was accurately scann'd, 
And th^n the merchant giving change, and 

signing 
Receipts in full, began to think of dining. 

XXX. 

I wonder if his appetite was good ? 

Or, if it were, if also his digestion ? 
Methinks at meals some odd thoughts might 
intrude, 

And conscience ask a curioussortof question 
About the right divine how far we should 

Sell flesh and blood. When dinner ha* 
opprest one, 
[ think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour 
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four. 

XXXI. 

Voltaire says " No:" he teils you that Candide 

Found life most tolerable after meals; 
He's wrong — unless man were a pig, indeed, 

Repletion rather adds to what he feels, 
Unless he 's drunk, and then no doubt he 's 
freed [reels. 

From his own brain's oppression while it 
Of food I think with Philip's son, or rather 

Amnion's (ill pleased with one world ami 
one father) ; 

XXXII. 

I think with Alexander, that the act 
Of eating, with another act or two, 

Makes us feel our mortality in fact 

Redoubled ; when a roast and a ragout. 

And fish, and soup, by some side dishes back A 
Can give us either pain or pleasure, who 

Would pique himself on intellects, whose use 

Depends so much upon the gastric juice? 

xxxm. 

The other evening ('twas on Friday last) — 

This is a fact, and no poetic fable — 
Just as my great coat was about, me cast, 

My hat and gloves still lying on the table, 
I heard a shot — 'twas eight o'clock scarco 
past— 

And, running out as fast as I was able,** 
I found the military commandant 

Stretch'd in the street, and able scarce to 
pant. 

xxxiv. 

Poor fellow ! for some reason, surely bad, 
They had slain him with five slugs ; and left 
him there 
To perish on the pavement : so I had 
Him borrre into the houseand up, the stair 



DON JUAN. 



387 



And stripp'd, and look'd to, But why 

should I add 
More circumstances? vain was every care; 
The man was gone : in some Italian quarrel 
Kill'd by five bullets from an old gun-barrel. 

XXXV. 

I gazed upon him, for I knew him well; 

And though I have seen many corpses, never 
Saw one, whom such an accident befell, 

So calm; though pierced through stomach, 
heart, and liver, 
He seem'd to sleep, — for you could scarcely tell 

(As he bled inwardly, no hideous river 
Of gore divulged the cause) that he was dead: 
So as I gazed on him, I thought or said — 

XXXVI. 

" Can this be death? then what is life or death? 

Speak!" but he spoke not: "wake!" but 
still he slept: — 
" But yesterday and who had mightier breath ? 

A thousand warriors by his word were kept 
In awe: he said, as the centurion saith, 

1 Go,' and be goeth ; ' come, and forth he 
stepp'd. 
The trump and bugle till he spake were dumh — 
And now noughtlefthim but the muffled drum." 

XXXVII. 

And they who waited once and worshipp'd — 
they [bed 

With their rough faces throng'd about the 
To gaze once more on the commanding clay 

Which for the last, though not the first, 
time bled : 
And such an end! that he who many a day 

Had faced Napoleon's foes until they fled, — 
The foremost in the charge or in the sally, 
Should now be butcher'd in a civic alley. 

XXXVIII. 

The scars of his old wounds were near his new, 
Those honourable scars which brought him 
fame; 

And horrid was the contrast to the view 

But let me quit the theme ; as such things 
claim 
Perhaps even more attention than is due 
From me : I gazed (as oft I have gazed the 
same) 
To try if I could wrench aught out of death 
Which should confirm, or shake, or make a 
faith ; 

XXXIX. 

But it was all a mystery. Here we are, 
And there we go: — but where? five bits of 
lead, 

Or three, or two, or one, send very far ! [shed ? 
And is this blood, then, form'd but to be 



Can every element our elements rrnr? 

And air — earth — water — fire live — and we 
dead? [more; 

We, whose minds comprehend all things? Nc 
But let us to the story as before. 

XL. 

The purchaser of Juan and acquaintance 
Bore off his bargains to a gilded boat, 

Embark'd himself and them, and ofi' they went 
thence 
As fast as oars could pull and water float ; 

They look'd like persons being led to sentence, 
Wondering what next, till the caique * was 
brought 

Up in a little creek below a wall 

O'ertopp'd with cypresses, dark-green and tall. 

XLI. 

Here their conductor tapping at the wicket 
Of a small iron door, 'twas open'd, and 

He led them onward, first through a low thicket 
Flank'd by large groves, which tower'd on 
either hand: 

They almost lost their way, and had to pick it — 
For night was closing ere they came to land. 

The eunuch made a sign to those on board, 

Who row'd off, leaving them without a word. 

XLII. 

As they were plodding on their winding way 
Through orange bowers, and jasmine, a;.d 
so forth : 

(Of which I might have a good deal to say, 
There being no such profusion in the Nortn 

Of oriental plants, " et cetera," 

But that of late your scribblers think : t 
worth [works, 

Their while to rear whole hotbeds in fhcit 

Because one poet travell'd mongst the Turks :) 

XLIII. 

As they were threading on their way, there came 
Into Don Juan's head a thought, which he 

Whisper'd to his companion: — 'twas the same 

Which might have then occurr'd to you or 

me. [great shame 

"Methinks," — said he, — "it would be no 
If we should strike a stroke to set us free; 

Let's knock that old black fellow on the head, 

And march away — 'twere easier done than 
said." 

XLIV. 

" Yes," said the other, " and when done, what 
then ? 
How get out ? how the devil got we in ? 
And when we once were fairly out, and when 
From Saint Baiholomew we have saved 
our skin, 7f 

2 c 2 



388 



DON JUAN. 



To-morrow 'd see us in some other den, 

And worse off than we hitherto have been ; 
Besides, I 'm hungry, and just now would take, 
Like Esau, for my birthright a beef-steak. 

XLV. 

" We must be near some place of man's 
abode ; — 
For the old negro's condolence in creeping, 
With his two captives, by so queer a road, 
Shows that he thinks his friends have not 
been sleeping; 
A single cry would bring them all abroad: 

Tis therefore better looking before leaping— 
And there, you see, this turn has brought us 

through 
Bj Jove, a noble palace ! — lighted too. 

XLVI. 

It .#-as indeed a wide extensive building 
Which open'd on their view, and o'er the 
front 

"iiere seem'd to be besprent a deal of gilding 
And various hues, as is the Turkish wont. — 

A gaudy taste; for they are little skill'd in 
The arts of which these lands were once the 
font: 

Each villa on the Bosphorus looks a screen 

New painted, or a pretty opera-scene. 

XLVII. 

And nearer as they came, a genial savoi : 
Of certain stews, and roast-meats, and pilaus, 

Things which in hungry mortals' eyes find 
favour, 
Made Juan in his harsh intentions pause, 

And put himself upon his good behaviour: 
His friend, too, adding a new saving clause, 

Said, " In Heaven's name let's get some supper 
now. 

And then I 'm with you, if you 're for a row." 

XLVIII. 

Some talk of an appeal unto some passion, 
Some to men's feelings, others to their reason ; 

The last of these was never much the fashion, 
For reason thinks all reasoning out of season. 

Some speakers whine, and others lay the las>h on, 
But more or less continue still to tease on, 

With arguments according to their " forte ;" 

But no one ever dreams of being short. — 

XLIX. 

But I digress: of all appeals, — although 
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold, 

Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling, — no 
Method's more sure at moments to take hold 

Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow 
More tender, as we every day behold, 

Than that all-softening, overpowering knell, 

The tocsin of the soul — the dinner-bell. 



Turkey contains no beds, and vtt men dine , 
And Juan and his friend, albeit they heard 

No Christian knoll to table, saw no line 
Of lackeys usher to the feast prepared, 

Yet smelt roast-meat, beheld a huge fire shine, 
And cooks in motion with their clean aunt 
bared, 

And gazed around them to the left and right. 

With the prophetic eye of appetite. 

LI. 

And giving up all notions of resistance, 

They follow'd close behind their sable guide 
Who little thought that hisowncrack'd existence 

Was on the point of being set aside : 
He motion'd them to stop at some small distance, 

And knocking at the gate, 'twas open'd wide, 
And a magnificent laige hall display'd 
The Asian pomp of Ottoman parade 

Lit. 
I won't describe; description is my forte, 

But every fool describes in these bright days 
His wondrous journey to some foreign court, 

And spawns his quarto, and demands yout 
praise — 
Death to his publisher, to him 't is sport ; 

While Nati;re,torturedtwenty thousand ways, 
Resigns herself with exemplary patience 
To guide-books, rhymes, tours, sketches, illus- 
trations. 

LIII. 

Along this hall, and up and down, some, squatted 
Upon their hams, were occupied at chess; 

Others in monosyllable talk chatted, 

And some seem'd much in love with their 
own dress. 

And divers smoked superb pipes decorated 
With amber mouths of greater price or less 

And several strutted, others slept, and some 

Prepared for supper with a glass of rum.* 1 

LIV 

As the black eunuch enter'd with his brace 
Of purchased Infidels, some raised their eyes 

A moment without slackening from their pace ; 
But those who sate, ne er stirr'd in any wi>c - 

One or two stared the captives in the face, 
Just as one views a horse to guess his price ; 

Some nodded to the negro from their station, 

But no one troubled him with conversation. 

LV. 

He leads them through the hall, and, without 
stopping, 
On through afarther range of goodly rooms, 
Splendid but silent, save in one, where, drop- 
ping,"* 
A marble fountain echoes through the gloomi 



DON JUAJST. 



389 



Of night, which robe the chamber, or w'^ere 
popping 
Some female head most curiously pus tunes 
To thrust its black eyes through the door or 

lattice, 
As wondering what the devil noise that is. 

LVI. 

Sume fain lamps gleaming from the -ofty walls 
Gave light enough to hint their farther way, 

But not enough to show the imperial halls 
In all the flashing of their full array; 

Perhaps there's nothing — I '11 not say appals, 
But saddens more by night as well as day, 

Than an enormous room without a soul 

To break the lifeless splendour of the whole. 

LVII. 

Two or three seem so little, one seems nothing. 

In deserts, forests, crowds, or by the shore, 
There solitude, we know, has her full growth in 

The spots which were her realms for ever- 
more : 
But in a mighty had or gallery, both in 

More modern buildings and those built of 
yore, 
A. kind of death comes >'er us all alone, 
aeeing what's meant for many with but one. 

LVIII, 

A .ieat, snug study on a winter's night, 
A book, friend, sing.e lady, or a glass 

Cf claret, sandwich, and an appetite, 

Are things which make an English evening 
pass ; 

Tnough eerie* by no means so grand a sight 
As is a theatre lit up by gas. 

I pass my evenings in long galleries solely ; 

And that 's the reason I 'm so melancholy. 

LIX 

Alas! man makes that great which makes him 
little : 
I grant you \n a church 'tis very well: 
What speaks of Heaven should by no means 
be brittle, 
But strong and lasting, till no tongue can tell 
Their names who rear'd it; but huge houses 
fit ill— [Adam fell: 

And huge tombs w r orse — mankind, .since 
Methinks the story of the tower of Babel 
Might teach them thismuch better than I'm able. 

LX. 

Babel was Nimrod's hunting-box, and then 
A townofgardens,walb, and wealth amazing, 

^here Nebuchadonosor, king of men, 
Reign'd, till one summer's day he took to 
grazing 



And Daniel lamed the liens in their den, 

The people's awe anu admiration raising j 
*T was famous, too, for Thisbeand fcrl-y ramus 
And the calumniated queen Semiramis — 

LXI. 
That injured Queen, by chroniclers so coarse 

Has been accused (I doubt not by conspiracy, 
Of an improper friendship for her horse 

(Love,iikereligion,sonietimesrnnstoher3sy'i 
This monstrous tale had probably its source 

(Forsuch exaggerations here and there I see] 
In writing' Courser "by mistake for "Courier:' 
I wish the case could come before a jury heie 

LX1I. 

But to resume, — should there be (what may noi 
Be in these days?) some infidels who don 

Because they can't find out the very spot 
Of that same Babel, or because they won't 

(Though Claudius Rich, Esquire, some bricks 
has got, 
And written lately two memoirs upon 't,) 

Believe the Jews, those unbelievers, who 

Must be believed, though they believe not you 

LXIII. 

Yet let them think that Horace has exprest 

Shortly and sweetly the masonic folly 
Of those, forgetting the great place of rest, 

Who give themselves to architecture w holly. 
We know where things and men must end at 
best: 

A moral (like all morals) melancholy, 
And " Et sepulchri immemor struis domos " 
Shows that we build when we should but 
entomb us. 

LXIV. 
At last they reach'd a quarter most retired, 

Where echo woke as if from a long slumber. 
Though full of all things which could be desired 

One wonder'd what to do with such anumbei 
Of articles which nobody required ; 

Here wealth had done its utmost to encumber 
With furniture an exquisite apartment, 
Which puzzled Nature much to know what 
Art meant. 

LXV 

It seem'd, however, but to open on 

A range or suite of further chambers, whicb 

Might lead to heaven knows where; but in 
this one 
The moveables were prodigally rich: 

Sofas 't was half a sin to sit upon, 

So costly were they ; carpets every stitch 

Of workmanship so rare, they made yon wish 

You could glide o'er ihem like a golden Ssh. 



390 



DON JUAN. 



LXVI. 

The black, however, without hardly deigning 

A glance at that which wrapt the slaves in 

wonder, [hig» 

Trampled what they scarce trod for fear of stain- 
As if the milky way their feet was under 

With all its stars ; and with a stretch attaining 
A certain press or cupboard niched in 
yonder — 

In that remote recess which you may see — 

Or if you don't the fault is not in me — 

LXVII. 

I wish to be perspicuous; and the black, 
I say, unlocking the recess, pull'd forth 

A quantity of clothes fit for the back 
Of any Mussulman, whate'er his worth ; 

And of variety there was no lack — [dearth, — 
And yet, though I have said there was no 

He chose himself to point out what he thought 

Most proper for the Christians he had bought. 

r xvm. 
The suit he thought most suitable to each 
Was, for the elder and the stouter, first 
A Candiote cloak, which to the knee might 
reach [burst, 

And trousers not so tight that they would 
But such as fit an Asiatic breech; [must, 

A shawl, whose folds in Cashmirehad been 
Slippers of saffron, dagger rich and handy ; . 
In short, all things which form a Turkish 
Dandy. 

LXIX. 

While he was dressing, Baba, their black friend, 
Hinted the vast advantages which they 

Might probably attain both in the end, 
If they would but pursue the proper way 

Which Fortune plainly seem'd to recommend ; 
A nd then he added that he needs must say, 

" T would greatly tend to better their condi- 
tion, 

If they would condescend to circumcision. 



" For his own part, he really should re- 
joice 

To see them true believers, but no less 
Would leave his proposition to their choice. 

The other, thanking him for this excess 
Of goodness, in thus leaving them a voice 

la such a trifle, scarcely could express 
" S iffijiently" (he said) " his approbation 
Of all the customs of this polish'd nation. 



LXXI. 

" For his own share — he saw Dut sinaL 

objection 
To so respectable an ancient rite ; 
And. after swallowing down a slight refection, 

For which he own'd a present appetite, 
He doubted not a few hours of reflection 

Would reconcile him to the business quite." 
" Will it?" said Juan, sharply : " Strike \m 

dead, 
But they as soon shall circumcise my head- 

L.XXI1. 

" Cut off a thousand heads, J«efore " — 

" Now, pray," 

Replied the other, " do not interrupt; 
You put me out in what I had to say. 

Sir! — as I said, as soon as 1 have supt. 
I shall perpend if your proposal may 

Be such as I can properly accept; 
Provided always your great goodness still 
Remits the matter to our own free-will." 

LXXIII. 

Baba eyed Juan, and said, " Be so good 
As dress yourself—" and pointed out a suit 

In which a Princess with great pleasure wculd 
Array her limbs: but Juan standing mute,] 

As not being in a masquerading mood, 

Gave it a slight kick with his Christian foot ; 

And when the old negro told him to " Get 
ready," 

Replied, " Old gentleman, I'm not a lady." 

r.xxiv. 
" What you maybe. I neither know nor care." 

Said Baba; " but pray do as I desire ; 

I hare no more time nor many words to 

spare.," 

" At least," said Juan, " sure I may inquire 

The cause of this odd travesty ?" — " Forbear," 

SaidBaba, " to be curious; 'twill transpire, 

No doubt, in proper place, and time, and 

season : 
I h/.ve no authority to tell the reason." 

LXXV. 

• Then if I do," said Juan, " 111 be — — - " 
— " Hold!" fvoking; 

Rejoin'd the negro, " pray be not pro- 
This spirit's well, but it may wax too bold, 

And you will find us not too fond of oking. 
" What sir," said Juan, " shall it e'er be told 

That I unsex'd my dress?" But Baba 
stroking [call 

The things down, said, " Tncense me, and I 
Those who will leave vou of no sex at all 



DON JUAN. 



391 



LXXVI. 

- I offer you a handsome suit of clothes : 
A woman's, true ; but then there is a cause 

Why you should wear them." — " What. 

though my soul loathes [pause, 

The effeminate garb ?" — thus, after a short 

Sigh'd Juan, muttering also some slightoaths, 
'• What the devil shall I do with all this 
gauze?" 

Thus he profanely term'd the finest lace 

Which e'er set off a marriage-morning lace 



And then he swore; and, sighing, on he slipp'd 
A pair of trousers of rlesh-colour'd silk ; 

Next with a virgin zone he was equipp'd, 
Which girt a slight chemise as white as 
milk ; 

But tugging on his petticoat, he tripp'd, 
Which — as we say — or, as the Scotch say, 
whilk, 

'The rhyme obliges me to this ; sometimes 

Monarchs are less imperative than rhymes) — 

I.XXVIII. 

tVhilk, which (or what you please), was 
owing to [awkward : 

His garment's novelty, and his being 
And yet at last he managed to get through 

His toilet, though no doubt a little backward: 
The negro Baba help'd a little too, [hard ; 

When some untoward part of raiment stuck 
And, wrestling both his arms into a gown, 
He paused, and took a survey up and down. 

LXXIX. 

One difficulty still remain'd — his hair 

W'as hardly long enough ; but Baba found 

So many false long tresses all to spare, 

That soon his head was most completely 
crown'd, 

After the manner then in fashion there; 
And this addition with such gems was 
bound 

As suited the ensemble of his toilet, [oil it. 

While Baba made him comb his head and 

I.XXX. 

And now being femininely all array 'd, 

W T ith some small aid from scissors, paint, 
aiid tweezers, 

He look'd in almost all respects a maid, [sirs, 
And Baba smilingly exclaim'd, " You see, 

A perfect 'xansformation here display 'd ; 
And now, then, you must come along with 
me, sirs, [twice, 

That is — the Lady:" — clapping his hands 

Vour blacks were at his elbow in a trice. 



LXXXI. 

" You, sir," said Baba, nodding to the one, 
" Will please to accompany those gentlemen 

To supper ; but you, worthy Christian nun, 
Will follow me: no trifling, sir; for when 

I say a thing, it must at once be done. 

W'hat fear you? think you this a lion sden? 

Why, 'tis a palace ; where the truly wise 

Anticipate the Prophet's paradise. 

I.XXXII. 

" You fool! I tell you no one means you 
harm." [them ; 

" So much the better," Juan said, " for 
Else they shall feel the weight of this my arm, 

Which is not quite so light as you may 
deem. 
I yield thus far ; but soon will break the charm 

If any take me for that which I seem : 
So that I trust for every body's sake, 
That this disguise may lead to no mistake." 

LXXXI II. 

'* Blockhead! come on, and see," quoth 
Baba; while 
Don Juan, turning to his comrade, who 
Though somewhat grieved, could scarce for- 
bear a smile 
Upon the metamorphosis in view, — 
" Farewell!" they mutually exclaim'd : " this 
soil 
Seems fertile in adventures strange and new, 
One 's turn'd half Mussulman, and one amaid, 
By this old black enchanter's unsought aid. 

LXXX1V. 

" Farewell!" said Juan: " should we meet 

no more, 

I wish you a good appetite." — " Farewell!' 

Replied the other; " though it grieves me 

sore ; [tell : 

W T hen we next meet, we'll have a tale to 

We needs must follow when Fate puts from 

shore, - [once fell." 

Keep your good name ; though Eve herself 

" Nay," quoth the maid, " ti.e Sultau's self 

shan't carry me, 
Unless his Highness promises to marry me." 

LXXXV. 

And thus they parted, each by separate doors ; 

Baba led Juan onward room by room 
Through glittering galleries, and o'er marble 
floors, 

Till a gigantic portal through the gloom, 
Haughty and huge, along the distance lowers; 

And wafted far arose a rich perfume : 
It seem'd as though they came upon a shrine 
For all was vast, still, fragrant, and divine ' 



192 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXVI. 

The giant door was broad, and bright, and 
high, [guise ; 

Of gilded bronze, and carved in curious 
Warriors thereon were battling furiously ; 

Here stalks the victor, there the vanquish'd 
lies ; 
There captives led in triumph droop the eye, 

And in perspective many a squadron flies ; 
It seems the work of times before the line 
Of Rome transplanted fell with Constantine. 

LXXXVIT. 

This massy portal stood at the wide close 
Of a huge hall, and on its either side 

Two little dwarfs, the least you could suppose, 
Were sate, like ugly imps, as if allied 

In mockery to the enormous gate which rose 
O'er them in almost pyramidic pride : 

The gate so splendid was in all its features?* 

You never thought about those little creatures, 

LXXXVIII. 

Until you nearly trod on them, and then 
You started back in horror to survey 

The wondrous hideousness of those small men, 
Whose colour was not black, nor white, 
nor grey, 

But an extraneous mixture, which no pen 
Can trace, although perhaps the pencil may ; 

They were mis-shapen pigmies, deaf and 
dumb — 

Monsters, who cost a no less monstrous sum. 

I.XXXIX. 

Their duty was — for they w r ere strong, and 
though [times — 

They look'd so liu>, did strong things at 
'fo ope this door, which they could really do. 

The hinges being as smooth as Rogers' 

rhymes ; [bow, 

And now and then, with tough strings of the 

As is the custom of those Eastern climes, 
To give some rebel Pacha a cravat 
For mutes are generally used for that 



They spoke by signs— that is, not spoke at a)l ; 

And looking like two incubi, they glared 
As Baba with his fingers made them fall 

To heaving back the portal folds : jt scared 
Juan a moment, as this pair so small, 

With shrinking serpent optics on him stared; 
It was as if their little looks could poison 
Or fascinate wuoiue'ei they tix'd their eves on. 



Before they enter'd, Baba paused to hint 
To Juan some slight lessons as his guide . 

" If you could just contrive," he said " \r, 
stint 
That somewhat manly majesty of stride, 

T would be as well, and, — v though there "s no 
much in't) 
To swing a little less from side to side, 

What has at times an aspect of the >iddest;— < 

And also could you look a little modest 

XCII. 

'* 'T would be convenient, for these mute) 
have eyes [ticoats ; 

Like needles, which may pierce those pet 
And if they should discover your disguise, 

You know how near us the deep Bosphcrus 
floats ; 
And you and I may chance, ere morning rise, 

To find our way to Marmora without boats 
Stitch'd up in sacks — a mode of navigation 
A good deal practised here upon occasion. ""* 

xcm. 
With this encouragement, he led the way 

Into a room still nobler than the last ; 
A rich confusion form'd a disarray 

In such sort, that the eye along it cast 
Could hardly carry any thing away, 

Object on object fiash'd so bright and fast 
A dazzling mass of gems, and gold, ana 

glitter, 
Magnificently mingled in a litter. 

XCIV. 

Wealth had done wonders — taste not much ; 
such things 
Occur in Orient palaces, and even 
In the more chasten'd domes of Western kings 
(Of which I have also seen some six c* 
seven) 
Where I can't say or gold or diamond flings 
Great lustre, there is much to be forgiven ; 
Groups of bad statues, tables, chairs, and pic 
tures, [turcs. 

On which I cannot pause to make my stric- 

xcv. 

In this imperial hall, at distance lay 
Under a canopy, and there reclined 

Quite in a confidential queenly way, 

A lady ; Baba stopp'd, and kneeling sign'o 

To Juan, who though not much used to pray, 

Knelt down by instinct, wondering in his 

mind [bended 

What all this meunt : while Ba^a bowed and 

His hey 1 until the ccvwnonr ended. 



DON JUAN. 



393 



XCVl. 

Hie lady rising up with such an air 

Au Venus rose with from thi wave, on them 

Bent like an antelope a Paphian pair 

Of eyes, which put out each surrounding 
gem; 

And raising up an arm as moonlight fair, 
She sign'd to Baha, who first kiss'd the hem 

0'" her deep purple rohe, and speaking low, 

IVnted to Juan, who remain'd below 

xcvn 
Her presence was as lofty as her state ; 

Her beauty of that overpowering kind, 
Whose force description only would abate: 

I'd rather leave it much to your own mind, 
Than lessen it by what I could relate 

Of forms and features; it would strike you 
blind 
Could I do justice to the full detail ; 
So, luckily for both, my phrases fail. 

xcvm. 
Thus much however I may add, — her years 
Were ripe, they might make six-anl-twenty 
springs, [bears, 

But there are forms which Time to touch for- 
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things, 
Such as was Mary's Queen of Scots ; true — 
tears [wrings 

And love destroy; and sapping sorrow 
Charms from the charmer, yet some never grow 
(Jgly; for instance — Ninon de l'Enclos. 



She spake some words to her attendants, who 
Composed a choir of girls, ten or a dozen, 

And were all clad alike; like Juan, too, 
Who wore their uniform, by Baba chosen ; 

They form'd a very nymph-like looking crew, 
Which might have call'd Diana's chorus 
" cousin," 

As far as outward show may correspond; 

I won't be bail for any thing beyond. 



They bow'd obeisance and vrithdrew, retiring 
But not by the same dcor through which 
came in 

B.iba and Juan, which last stood admiring, 
At some small distance, all he saw within 

This strange saloon, much fitted for inspiring 
Marvel and praise ; for both or none things 
win; 

And I must say, I ne'er could see the very 

Great happiness of the " Nil Adniirari." 



" Not to admire is all the an T know 

(Plain truth, dear Murray, neeas few flower* 
of speech) 
To make wen happy, or to keep them so ;" 

(So take it in the very words of Creech). 
Thus Horace wrote we all know long age ; 

An.'l thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teat b 
From Ins translation; but had none admired 
WouldPope have sung.or Horace been inspired 

en. 
Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn, 

Motion 'd to Juan to approach, and then 
A .second time desired him to kneel down, 

And kiss the lady's foot; which maxim when 
He heard repeated, Juan with a frown 

Drew himself up to his full height again, 
And said," It grieved him, but he could not stoop 
To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope " 

cm. 
Baba, indignant at this ill-timed pride, 

Made fierce remonstrances, and then a threat 
He mutter'd (but the last was given aside) 

About a bow-string — quite in vain; not yet 
WouldJuan bend, though 'twere to Mahomet's 
bride : 

There's nothing in the world like etiquette 
In kingly chambers or imperial halls, 
As also at the race and county balls. 

civ. 
He stood like Atlas, with a world of words 

About his ears, and nathless would not bend ; 
The Wood of all his line's Castilian lords 

Boil'd in his veins, and rather than descend 
To stain his pedigree a thousand swords 

A thousand times of him had made an end; 
At length perceiving the " foot " could not 

stand, 
Baba proposed that he should kis3 the hand. 

cv 
Here was an honourable comp. .muse^ 

A half-way house of diplomatic rest. 
Wheie they might meet in much more peace- 
ful guise; 

And Juan now his willingness exprcst, 
To use all fit and proper courtesies, 

Adding, that this was commonest and best 
For through the South, the custom still com 

mandt 
The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands. 

cvi. 
And he advanced, though with but a bad grace, 

Though on more thorough-bred' 5 or fairer 
fingers 
No lips e'er left their transitory trace: 

On such as these the lip too fondly lingers 



394 



DON JUAN. 



And for one kiss would fain imprint a brace, 

As you will see, if she you love shall bring 

hers [ger's 

In contact ; and sometimes even a fair stran- 

An almost twelvemonth's constancy endangers. 



The lady eyed him o'er and t'er, and bade 

Baba retire, which he obey'd in style, 
As if well used to the retreating trade ; 

And taking hints in good part all the while, 
He whisper d J uan not to be afraid , 

And looking on him with a sort of smile, 
Took leave, with such a face of satisfaction, 
As good men wear who have done a virtuous 
action. 

cvni. 
When he was gone, there was a sudden change : 

I know not what might be the lady's thought, 
But o'er her bright brow fiash'd a tumult strange, 

And into her clear cheek the blood was 
brought, 
Blood-red as sunset summer clouds which range 

The verge of Heaven : and in her large eyes 
wrought 
A mixture of sen rt nons, might be scann'd, 
Of half voluptuousness and half command. 



Her form had all the softness of her sex, 
Her features all the sweetness of the devil, 

When he put on the cherub to perplex 

Eve, and paved (God knows how) the road 
to evil; [specks 

The sun himself was scarce more free from 

Than she from aught at which the eye could 

cavil; [where wanting, 

Vet, somehow, there was something some- 

As if she lather order d than was granting. — 



Something imperial, or imperious, threw 
A chain o'er all she did; that is, a chain 

Was thrown as 'twere about the neck of you — • 
And rapture's self will seem almost a pain 

With aught which looks like despotism in view: 
Our souls at least are free, and 'tis in vain 

We would against them make the flesh obey — 

The spirit in the end will have its way. 



Her very smile was haughty, though so sweet; 

Her very nod was not an inclination; 
There was a self-will even in her small feet. 

As though they were quite conscious of her 
station — 



They trod as upon necks; and to complete 

Her state (it is the custom of her nation}, 
A poniard deck'd her girdle, as the sign 
She was a sultan's bride, (thank Heaven, no* 
mine !) 

CXII. 

' To hear and to obey" had been from birth 
The law of all around her: to fulfil 

All phantasies which yielded joy or mirth, 
Had been her slaves' chief pleasure, as her 
will; 

Her blood was high, her beauty scarce of earth 
Judge, then, if her caprices e'er stood still; 

Had she but been a Christian, I've a notion 

We should have found out the " perpetual 
motion ' 

CXIII. 

Whate'er she saw and coveted was brought; 

Whate'e- she did not see, if she supposed 
It might be seen, with diligence was sought, 

And when 't was found straightway the bar- 
gain closed: 
There was no end unto the things she bought 

Nor o the trouble which her fancies caused ; 
Yet i, fen her tyranny had such a grace, 
The women pardon'd all except her face. 

CXIV. 

Juan, the latest of her whims, had caught. 

Her eye in passing on his way to sale; 
She order'd him directly to be bought, 

And Baba, who had ne'er been known to fail 
In any kind of mischief to be wrought, 

At all such auctions knew how to prevail: 
She had no prudence, but he had ; and this 
Explains the garb which Juan took amiss. 

cxv. 

His youth and features favour'd the disguise 
And, should you ask how she, a sultan't 
bride, 

Could risk or compass such strange phantasies, 
This I must leave sultanas to decide: 

Emperors are only husbands in wives' eyes, 
An-.l kings and consorts oft are mystified, 

As we may ascertain with due prec sion, 

Some by experience, others by tradition. 

CX VI. 

But to the main point, where we have been 
tending : — 

She now conceived all difficulties past, 
And deem'd herself extremely condescenrting 

When, being made her property u: l*st'. 



DON JUAN. 



395 



Without more preface, in her bine eyes blending 

Passion and power, a glance on him she cast, 

And merely sajing, "Christian, canst thou 

love?'* [move. 

Conceived that phrase was quite enough to 

cxvu. 
And so it was, in proper time and place; 

But J uau, \vh' had still his mind o'erflowing 
With Haider s isle and soft Ionian face, 
Felt the warm blood, which in his face was 
glowing, 
llush back upon his heart, which filled apace 
And left his cheeks as pale as snow-drops 
blowing: [spears, 

These words went through his soul like Arab- 
So that he spoke not, but burst into tears. 

CXV'iI. 

She was a good deal shock'd; not shock'd at 
tears, 

For women shed and use them at their liking 
But there is something when man's eye appears 

Wet, still more disagreeable and striking: 
•V woman's tear-drop melts, a man's half sears, 

Like molten lead, as if you thrust a pike in 
His heart to force it out, for (to be shorter) 
To them 'tis a relief, to us a torture. 

cxix. 
And she would have consoled, but knew not 
how: 

Having no equals, nothing which had e'er 
Infected her with sympathy till now, 

And never having dreamt what 't was to bear 
Aught of a serious, sorrowing kind, although 

There might arise some pouting petty care 
I'o cross her brow, she wonder' d how so near 
Her eye another's eyes could shed a tear. 

cxx. 
But nature teaahes more than power can spoil, 

And when a strong although a strange sen- 
sation 
Moves — female hearts are such a genial soil 

For kinder feelings, whatsoe'er their nation, 
They naturally pour the " wine and oil," 

Samaritans in every situation; 
And thus Gulbeyaz, though she knew not why 
Felt an oild glistening moisture in her eye. 

CXXI. 

But tears must stop like all things else; and soon 
Juan, who for an instant had been moved 

To such a sorrow by the intrusive tone 

Of one *"ho dared to ask if " he had loved," 

Uall'd back the stoic to his eyes, which shone 
Bright with t'ie very weakness he reproved; 

And although sensitive to beauty, he 

Felt most indignant still at not being free. 



CXXII. 

Gulbeyaz, for the first time in her days, 
Was much embarrass'd, never having met 

In all her life with aught save prayers and praise; 
And as she also risk'd her life to get 

Him whom she meant to tutor in love's wars 
Into a comfortable tete-a-tete, 

To lose the hour would make her quite amartvr. 

And they had waited now almost a quarter! 

CXXIII. 

I also would suggest the fitting time, 
To gentlemen in any such like case, 

That is to say — in a meridian clime, 

With us there is more law given to the chase 

But here a small delay forms a great crime: 
So recollect that the extremest grace 

Is just two minutes for your declaration — 

A moment more would hurt your reputation. 

cxxiv. 
Juan's was good; and might ha^e been still 
better, 

But he had got Haidee into his head: 
However strange, he could not yet forget her, 

Which made him seem exceedingly ill-bred. 
Gulbeyaz, who look'd on him as her debtor 

For having had him to her palace led, 
Began to blush up to the eyes, and then 
Crow deadly pale, and then blush back again. 

exxv 

At length, in an imperial way, she laid 

Her hand on his, and bending on him eyes, 

Which needed not an empire to persuade, 
Look'd into his for love, where none replies: 

Her brow grew black, but she would not upbraid. 
Thatbeingthelastthingaproud woman tries • 

She rose, and pausing one chaste moment, threw 

Herself upon his breast, and there she grew 

CXXVI. 

This was an awkward test, as Juan found, 
Buthe was steel'd by sorrow,wrath,and pride. 

With gentle force her white anus he unwound' 
And seated her all drooping by his side, 

Then rising haughtily he glanoed around, 
And looking coldly in her face, he cried, 

" The prison'd eagle will not pair, nor I 

Serve a sultana's sensual phantasy. 

CXXVII. 

" Thou ask'st, if I can love? be this the proot 
Howrnuch I have loved— that I lovenot/fae. 

In tlris vile garb, the distaff, w«-b, and woof, 
Were filtJr for me ■ Love is for the free! 



396 



DON JUAN. 



I am not dazzled by this splendid roof; 

Whate'er thy power, and great it seems to be ; 
Heads bow, knees bend, eyes watch around a 

throne. 
And hands obey — our hearts are still our own." 

CXXVIII. 

This was a truth to us extremely trite ; 

Not so to her, who ne'er had heard such things: 
She deem'd her least command must yield 
delight, 

Earth being only made for queens and kings. 
If hearts lay on the left side or the right 

She hardly knew, to such perfection brings 
Legitimacy its born votaries, when 
A. ware of their due royal rights o'er men. 

CXXIX. 

Besides, as has been said, she was so fair 
As even in a much humbler lot had made 

A kingdom or confusion any where, 

And also, as may be presumed, she laid ^ 

Some stress on charms, which seldom are, if e'er, 
By their possessors thrown into the shade : 

She thought hers gave a double " right divine; " 

And half of that opinion 's also mine. 

cxxx. 

Remember, or (if you can not) imagine, 
Ye 1 whohave kept your chastity when young, 

While some more desperate dowager has been 

waging [stung 

Love with you, and been in the dog-days 

By your refusal, recollect her raging ! 
Or recollect all that was said or sung 

On such a subject ; then suppose the face 

Of a young downright beauty in this case. 

CXXXI. 

Suppose,— but you already have supposed, 
The spouse of P >tiphar, the Lady Booby, 

Phsedra, and all which story has disclosed 
Of good examples ; pity that so few by 

Poets and private tutors are exposed, 
To educate— ye youth of Europe— you by ! 

But when you have supposed the few we know, 

You can't suppose Gulbeyaz' angry brow. 

CXXXIl. 

A tigress robb'd of young, a lioness, 
Or any interesting beast of prey, 

Are similes at hand for the distress 

Of ladies who can not have their own way; 

But though my turn will not be served with less, 
These don't express one half what I should 
say : 

For what' is stealing young ones, few or many, 

To cutting short their hopes of having any? 



CXXXIII. 

The love of offspring 's nature's general la*", 
From tigresses and cubs to ducks and duck 
lings: [claw 

There 's nothing whets the beak, or arms the 
Like an invasion of theirbabes and sucklings 
And all who have seen a human nursery, saw 
How mothers love their children's squai 
and chuck lings ; 
This strong extreme effect (to tire no longer 
Your patience) shows the cause must still be 
stronger. 

CXXXIV. 

If I said fire flash'd from Gulbeyaz' eyes, 
T were nothing — for her eyes flash'd always 
fire ; 

Or said her cheeks assumed the deepest dyes 
I should but bring disgrace upon the dyer, 

So supernatural was her passion's rise ; 

For ne'er till now she knew a check'd desire : 

Even ye who know what a check'd woman is 

(Enough, God knows \) would much fall short 
of this. 

exxxv. 

FTer rage was but a minute's, and 'twas well—" 
A moment's more had slain her ; but the 
while 

It lasted 't was like a short glimpse of hell : 
Nought 's more sublime than energetic bile. 

Though horrible to see yet grand to tell, 
Like ocean warring 'gainst a rocky isle ; 

And the deep passions flashing through hei 
form 

Made her a beautiful embodied storm. 

cxxxvi. 

A vulgar tempest 't were to a typhoon 
To match a common fury with her rage, 

A nd yet she did not want to reach the moon, 
Like moderate Hotspur on the immortal page. 

Her anger pitch'd into a lower tune, 

Perhaps the fault of her soft sex and age — 

Her wish was but to " kill, kill, kill,' like Lear's 

And then her thirst of blood was quench'd io 
tears. 

cxxxvn. 

A storm it raged, and like the storm it pass'd, 
Pass'd without words — in fact she could nol 
speak ; 

And then her sex's shame broke in at. las;, 
A sentiment till then in her but weak, 

But now it flow'd in natural and fast, 
As water through an unexpected ieak, 

For she felt humbled — and humiliation 

Is sometimes good foi people in her station. 



DON JUAN. 



397 



CXXXVIII, 

It teaches them that they are flesh and blood, 

It also gently hints to them that others, 
Although of clay, are yet not quite of mud ; 

That urns and pipkins are but fragile brothers, 
And works of the same pottery, bad or good, 

Though not all born of the same sires and 
mothers : 
It teaches — Heaven knows only what it teaches, 
Hu' sometimes it may mend, and often reaches. 

cxxxix. 
Her first thought was to cut off Juan s head ; 

Her second, to cut only his — acquaintance; 
Ker third, to ask him where he had been bred ; 

Her fourth, to rally him into repentance; 
Her fifth, to call her maids and go to bed ; 

Her sixth, to stab herself; her seventh, to 
sentence 
The lash to Baba: — but her grand resource 
Was »o sit down again, and cry of course. 

CXL. 

She thought to stab herself, but then she had 
The dagger close at hand, which made it 
awkward ; 

For Eastern stays are little made to pad, 
So that a poniard pierces if 't is stuck hard : 

She thought of killing Juan — but, poor lad ! 
Though he deserved it well for being so 
backward. 

The cutting off his head was not the art 

Most likely to attain her aim — his heart. 

CXLI. 

Juan was moved: he had made up his mind 
To be impaled, or quarter'd as a disli 

For dogs, or to be slain with pangs refined, 
Or thrown to lions, or made bait.s for fish, 

And thus heroically stood resign d, 

Rather than sin — except to his own wish: 

But all his great preparatives for dying 

Dissolved like snow before a woman crying. 

CXLII. 

As through his palms Bob Acres' valour oozed, 
So Juan's virtue ebb'd, I know not how; 

And first he wonder 'd why he had refused ; 
And then, if matters could be made up now ; 

And next his savage virtue he accused, 
Just as a friar may accuse his vow, 

Or as a dame repents her of her oath, 

Which mostly ends in some small breach of both. 

CXLIII. 

So he began to stammer some excuses ; 

But words are not enough in such a matter, 
Although you borrow'd all that e'er the muses 

Have sung, or even a Dandy's dandiest 
chatter. 



Or all the figures Castlereagh abuses; 

Just as a languid smile began to flatter 
His peace was making, but before he ventured 
Further, old Baba rather briskly enter'd. 

CXLIV. 

1 Bride of the Sun ! and Sister of the M)on !* 

(T was thus he spake,) "and Empress >f 

the Earth! [tune, 

Whose frown would put the spheres all out ol 

Whose smile makes all the planets dance 

with mirth, [soon — 

Vour slave brings tidings — he hopes not too 
Which your sublime atttntion may be worth 

The Sun himself has sent me like a ray, 

To hint that he is coming up this way " 

CXLV. 

"Is it," exclaim'd Gulbeyaz, " as you say? 
I wish to heaven he would not shine til' 
morning? 
But bid my women form the milky way. 
Hence, my old comet ! give the stars du» 
warning — 
\nd, Christian ! mingle with them as yoa may 
And as you'd have me pardon your past 

scorning " 

Here they were interrupted by a humming 
Sound, and then by a cry, " The Sultan '* 
coming ! ' 

CXLVI. 

First came her damsels, a decorous file, 
And then his Highness' eunuchs, black ana 
white ; 

The train might reach a quarter of a milet 
His majesty was always so polite 

As to announce his visits a long while 
Before he came, especially at night; 

For being the last wife of the Emperour, 

She was of course the favourite of the four. 

CXLVII. 

His Highness was a man of solemn port, 
Shawl'd to the nose, and bearded to the eyes. 

Snatch'd from a prison to preside at court, 
His lately bowstrung brother caused his rise; 

He was as good a sovereign of the sort 
As any mention d in the histories 

Of Canteinir, or Knolles, where few shine 

Save Solyman, the glory of their line. 

CXLVIII. 

He went to mosque in state, and said hisprayen 
With more than " Oriental scrupulosity ;' 

He left to his vizier all state affairs. 
And show'd but little -oval curiosity; 



398 



DON JUAN. 



I know not if he had domestic cares- 
No process proved connubial animosity; 
tour wives and twice five hundred maids, 

unseen, 
Were ruled as calmly as a Christian queen. 

CXMX. 

if now and then there happened a slight slip, 
Little was heard of criminal or crime ; 
he story scarcely pass'd a single lip — 
The sack and sea had settled all in time, 
roni which the secret nobody could rip: 
The public knew no more than does this 
rhyme ; 
No scandals made the daily press a curse — 
Morals were better, and the fish no worse. 



He saw with his own eyes the moon was round, 
Was also certain that the earth was square. 

Because he had journey 'd fifty miles, and found 
No sign that it was circular any where ; 

His empire also was without a bound. 
T is true, a little troubled here and there, 

By rebel pachas, and encroaching giaours, 

But then they never came to " the Seven 
Towers ; " 76 

CM. 
Except in shape of envoys, who were sent 
To lodge there when a war broke out, ac- 
cording 
To the true law of nations, which ne'er meant 
Those scoundrels, who have never had a 
sword in 
Their dirty diplomatic hands, to vent 

Their spleen in making strife, and safely 
wording 
Their lies, yclep'd despatches, without risk or 
The singeing of a single inky whisker. 



He had fifty daughters and four dozen sons, 
Of whom all such as came of age were stow'd, 

The former in a palace, where like nuns 
They lived till some Bashaw was sent abroad, 

When she, whose turn it was, was wed at once, 
Sometimes at six years old 7 ? — though this 
seems odd, 

T is true ; the reason is, that the Bashaw 

Must make a present :o his sire in law 

CMII. 

His sons we.e kept in prison, till they grew 
Of years to fill a bowstring or the throne, 

One or the other, but which of the two 
Could yet be mown unto the fates alone ; 



Meantime the education they went through 
Was princely, as the proofs have alwayi 
shown • 
So that the heir apparent still was found 
No less deserving to be hang'd than crown'd, 

CLIV. 

His Majesty saluted his fourth spouse 
With all the ceremonies of his rank, 

Who clear 'd her sparkling eyes and smooth'd 
her brows, 
As suits a matron who has play'd a prank ; 

These must seem doubly mindful of their vows, 
To save the credit of their breaking bank: 

To no men are such cordial greetings given, 

As those whose wives have made them fit for 
heaven. 

CLV. 

His Highness cast around his great black eyes, 
And looking, as he always look'd, perceived 

Juan amongst the damsels in disguise, 

At which he seem'd no whit surprised n-»r 
grieved, 

But just remark 'd with air sedate and wise, 
While still a fluttering sigh Gulbeyaz heaved 

" 1 see you've bought another girl; 'tis pity 

That a mere Christian should behalf so pretty.' 



This compliment, which drew all eyes upon 
The new-bought virgin, made her blush and 
shake 

Her comrades, also, thought themselves undone: 
Oh! Mahomet! that his Majesty should take 

Such notice of a giaour, while scarce to one 
Of them his lips imperial ever spake ! 

There was a general whisper, toss, and wriggle. 

But etiquette forbade them all to giggle. 

CLVII 

The Turks do well to shut — at least, some 
times — 

The women up— because, in sad reality, 
Their chastity in these unhappy climes 

Is not a thing of that astringent quality/, 
Which in the North, prevents precocious cri^ie* 

And makes our snow less pure thaa cm 
morality; 
The sun, which yearly melts the polar ioe, 
Has quite the contrary eifect on vice. 

CLVIII. 

Thus in the East they are extremely strict. 

And wedlock and a padlock mean the 
Excepting only when the former .'s pick'd 

It ne'er can be replaced in proper fram 



DON JUAN. 



399 



Spoilt, as a pipe of claret is when prick'd. 

But then their own polygamy's to blame; 
Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life 
Into that moral centaur, man and wife ? 

CLIX. 

Thus tar our chronicle ; and now we pause, 
Though not for want of matter ; but 'tis time, 

According to the ancient epic laws, 

To slacken sail, and anchor with our rhyme. 

Let this fifth canto meet with due applause, 
The sixth shall have a touch of the sublime ; 

Meanwhile, as Homer sometimes sleeps, per- 
haps 

You '11 pardon to my muse a few short naps. 



Bon 3Juan. 



PREFACE TO 
CANTOS VI. VII. AND VIII. 

The details of the siege of Ismail in two of 
the following cantos (t. e. the seventh and 
eighth) are taken from the French Work, en- 
titled " Histoire de la Nouvelle Russie." Some 
of the incidents attributed to Don Juan really 
occurred, particularly the circumstance of his 
saving the infant, which was the actual case 
of the late Due de Richelieu, then a young 
volunteer in the Russian service, and after- 
ward the founder and benefactor of Odessa 78 , 
where his name and memory can never cease 
to be regarded with reverence. 

In the course of these cantos, a stanza or 
two will be found relative to the late Marquis 
of Londonderry, but written some time before 
his decease. Had that person's oligarchy died 
jvith him, they would have been suppressed ; 
as it is, I am aware of nothing in the manner 
of his death"9 Q r of his life to prevent the free 
expression of the opinions of all whom his 
whole existence was consumed in endeavour 
.ng to enslave. That he was an amiable man 
in private life, may or may not be true; but 
with this the public have nothing to do ; and 
as to lamenting his death, it will be time 
enough when Ireland has ceased to mourn for*' 
his birth. As a minister, I, for one of millions, 
.ooked upon him as the most despotic in inten- 
tion, and the weakest in intellect, that ever 



tyrannised over a country. It is the first tinv 
indeed since the Normans that England has 
been insulted by a minister (at least) who could 
not speak English, and that Parliament per 
mitted itself to be dictated to in the languagt 
of Mrs. Malaprop. 

Of the manner of his death little need be 
said, except that if a poor radical, such a> 
Waddington or Watson, had cut his throat 
he would have been buried in a cross-road 
with the usual appurtenances of the stake ant 
mallet. But the minister was an elegant lunatii 
— a sentimental suicide — he merely cut tht 
" carotid artery," (blessings on their learning! 
and lo ! the pageant, and the Abbey ! and " tht 
syllables of dolour yelled forth " by the news- 
papers — and the harangue of the Coroner in a 
eulogy over the bleeding body of the deceased — 
(an Anthony worthy of such a Caesar)-— and the 
nauseous and atrocious cant of a degraded crew 
of conspirators against all that is sincere and 
honourable. In his death he was necessarily 
one of two things by the law 80 — a felon or a 
madman — and in either case no great subject 
for panegyric. In his life he was — what all 
the world knows, and half of it will feel for 
years to come, unless his death prove a " moral 
lesson " to the surviving Sejani 81 of Europe. It 
may at least serve as some consolation to the 
nations, that their oppressors are not happy, 
and in some instances judge so justly ot their 
owu actions as to anticipate the sentence of 
mankind. Let us hear no more of this man ; 
ami lei Ireland remove the ashes of herGrattan 
from the sanctuary of Westminster. Shall the 
patriot of humanity repose by the Werther of 
politics ! ! ! 

With regard to the objections which have 
been made on another score to the already 
published cantos of this poem, I shall content 
myself with two quotations from Voltaire : — 
" La pudeur s'est enfuite des cceurs, et s'est 
refugiee sur les levies." ..." Plus les lnoeurs 
sont depraves, plus les expressions deviennent 
mesurees ; on croit regagner en langage ce 
qu'on a perdu en vertu." 

This is the real fact, as applicable to the 
degraded and hypocritical mass which leavens 
the present English generation, and is the only 
answer they deserve. The hackneyed and 
lavished title of Blasphemer — which, with 
Radical, Liberal, Jacobin, Reformer, &c. are 
the changes which the hirelings are daily 
ringing iu the ears of those who will listen- 
should be welcome to all who recollect on whom 
it was originally bestowed. Socrates and Jesus 



400 



DON JUAN. 



Christ were put to death publicly as blat- 
vhemers, and .so have been and may be many 
who dare to oppose the most notorious abuses 
of the name of God and the mind oi man. But 
persecution is not refutation, nor even triumph : 
the " wretched infidel," as he is called, is pro- 
bably happier in his prison than the proudest 
of his assailants. With his opinions I have 
nothing to do — they may be right or wrong — 
but he has suffered for them, and that very 
suffering for conscience' sake will make more 
proselytes to deism than the example of hete- 
rodox, 82 Prelates to Christianity, suicide states- 
men to oppression, or overpcnsioned homicides 
to the impious alliance which insults the world 
with the name of " Holy ! " I have no wish to 
trample on the dishonoured or the dead; but 
it would be well if the adherents to the classes 
from whence those persons sprung should abate 
a little of the cant which is the crying sin of 
Shis double-dealing and false-speaking time of 

selfish spoilers, and but enough for the 

present. 
Pisa, July, 1822. 



CANTO THE SIXTH. 



Th k*e is a tide in the affairs of men 
Which, — taken at the flood," — you know 
the rest 83 , 
And most of us have found it now and then ; 
At least we think so, though but few have 
guess'd 
The moment, till too late to come again. 

But no doubt every thing is for the best — 
Of which the surest sign is in the end : 
When things are at the worst they sometimes 
mend. 

ii. 
There is a tide in the affairs of women 

Which, taken at the flood, leads — God 
knows where . 
Those navigators must be able seamen 

Whose charts lay down its current to a hair; 
Not all the reveries of Jacob Behmen 84 
With its strange whirls and eddies can com- 
pare: 
Men with their heads reflect on this and that — 
Bul*wcmen with their beartson heaven knows 
what ' 



III. 

^nd yet aheadlong, headstrong, downright she, 
Young, beautiful, and daring — who would 
risk 

A throne, the world, the universe, to be 
Beloved in her own way, and rather whisk 

The stars lrom out the sky, than not be tree 
As aie the billows when the breeze is brisk — 

Though such a she *s a devil (if that there be 
one), 

Yet she would make full raanv a Manichean. 



Thrones, worlds, et cetera, are so oft upset 
By commonest ambition, that when passion 

O'crthrows the same, we readily forget, 
Or at the least forgive, the loving rash one. 

If Anthony be well remember'd yet, 

T is not his conquests keep his name in 
fashion, 

But Actium, lost for Cleopatra's eyes, 

Outbalances all Caesar's victories. 

v. 

He died at ri:'ty for a queen of forty ; 

I wish their years had been fifteen and 

twenty, [sport — I 

For then wealth, kingdoms, worlds are but a 

Remember when, though I had no great 

plenty 

Of worlds to ose, yet still, to pay my court, I 

Gave what i had — a heart: as the world 

went, 1 r could never 

Gave what was worth a world ; for worlds 

Restore me those pure feelings, gone for ever. 



'T was the boy's" mite," and like the "widow's," 
may 

Perhaps be w r eigh'd hereafter, if not now; 
But whether such things do or do not weigh, 

All who have loved, or love, will still nllow 
Life has nought like it. God is love, they say, 

And Love 's a God, or was before the brow 
Oi' earth was wrinkled by the sins and tears 
Of — but Chronology best knows the years. 



We left our hero and third heroine in 

A kind of state more awkwa.d than un- 
common, 

For gentlemen must sometimes risk their skin 
For that sad tempter, a forbidden woman ■ 

Sultans too much abhor this sort of s;in. 
And don't agree at all with the wise Roman, 

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious, 

Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius. 



DON JUAN. 



401 



I know Gulbeyaz was extremely wrong ; 

I own it, I deplore it, I condemn it; 
But I detest all fiction even in song, 

And so must tell the truth, howe'er you 
blame it. 
Tier reason being weak, her passions strong 

She thought that her lord's heart (e/en could 
she claim it) 
Was scarce enough ; for he had fifty-nine 
Years, and a fifteen-hundredth concubine. 

^ dm not, like Cassio, " an arithmetician," 
But by " the bookish theoric" it appears, 
If 't is summ'd up with feminine precision, 
That, adding to the account his Highness 
years, 
The fair Sultana err'd from inanition ; 

For, were the Sultan just to all his dears, 
She could but claim the fifteen-hundredth part 
Of what should be monopoly — the heart. 

x. 
It is observed that ladies arc litigious 
Upon all legal objects of possession, 
And not the least so when they are religious, 
Which doubles what they think of the 
transgression ; 
With suits and prosecutions they besiege us, 
As the tribunals show through many a 
session. 
When they suspect that any one goes shares 
In thdt to which the law makes them sole 
heirs. 

XI. 

Now, if this holds good in a Christian land, 
The heathen also, though with lesser lati- 
tude, 
Are apt to carry things with a high hand, 
And take, what kings call " an imposing 
attitude ;" 
Aud for their rights connubial make a stand. 
When their iiegc husbands treat them with 
ingratitude ; 
And as four wives m iist have quadruple claims, 
The Tigris hath its jealousies like Thames. 

XII. 

Gulbeyaz was the fourth, and (as I said) 
The favourite; but what's favour amongst 
four? 
Polygamy may well be held in dread, 

Not only as a sin, but as a bore: 
Most wise men with one moderate woman wed, 

Will scarcely find philosophy for more ; 
And all (except Mahometans) forbear 
To make the nuptial couch a " Bed of 
Ware.'** 

9? 



XIII. 

His Highness, the sublimest of mankind, 

So styled according to the usual forms 
Of every monarch, till they are consigns 

To those sad hungry jacobins the worms, 
Who on the very loftiest kings have dined,— 

His Highness gazed upon G ulbeva/.' charm*, 
Expecting all the welcome of a lover [over' 
(A " Highland welcome" all the wide woiji 

xr-\ 
Now here we shoulc distinguish; forhowc'ci 

Kisses, sweet words, embraces, and all that, 
May look like what is — neither here nor there, 

They are put on as easily as a hat, 
Or rather bonnet, which the fair sex wear. 

Trimni'd either heads or hearts to decorate 
Which form an ornament, but no more pail 
Of heads, than their caresses of the heart 



A slight blush, a soft tremor, a calm kind 
Of gentle feminine delight, and shown 

More in the eyelids than the eyes, resign'd 
Rather to hide what pleases most unknovs: 

Are the best tokens (to a modest mind) 
Of love, when seated on his loveliest thron?. 

A sincere woman's breast, — for over-«,arr. 

Or ovcr-coid annihilates the charm. 



For over-warmth, if false, is worse than truth ; 

If true, 'tis no great lease of its own fire : 
For no one, save in very early youth, 

Would like (I think) to trust all to desire, 
Which is but a precarious bond, in sooth. 

And apt to be transfcrr'd to the first buyer 
At a sad discount: while your over chill v 
Women, on t'other hand, seem somewhat 
silly. 



That is, we cannot pardon their bad taste. 
For so it seems to lovers swift or slow. 

Who fain would have a mutual flame confess d, 
And see a sentimental passion glow, 

Even were St. Francis' parameur their guest, 
In his monastic concubine of snow ; — W 

In short, the maxim for the amorous tribe is 

Horatiun, " Medio tu tutissimus ibis." 

xvm. 

The " tu" 's too much, — but let it stand, — the 
verse 
Requires it, that's to say, the English rhyme 
And not the pink of old hexameters ; 

But, after all, there's neither tune nor tune 
2 n 



402 



DON JUAN. 



In toe last line, which cannot well be worse, 
And was thrust in to close the octave's 
chime: 
I own no prosody can ever rate it 
As a rule, but truth may, if you translate it* 

XIX. 

li fair Gulbeyaz overdid her part, 

I know not — it succeeded, aud success 

Is much in most things, not less in the heart 
Than other articles of female dress. 

Self-love in man, too, beats all female art; 
They lie, we lie, all lie, but love no less: 

And no one virtue yet, except starvation, 

Could stop that worst of vices — propagation. 

xx. 

We leave this royal couple to repose 

A bed is not a throne, and they may sleep, 

'*\ hate'er their dreams be, if of joys or woes : 
Yet disappointed joys are woes as deep 

As any maa's clay mixture undergoes. 

Our least of sorrows are such as we weep ; 

'Tis the vile daily drop on drop which wears 

The soul out (like the stone) with petty cares. 

XXI. 

A scolding wife, a sullen son, a bill 

To pay, unpaid, protested, or discounted 

At a per centage; a child cross, dog ill, 
A favourite horse fallen lame just as he's 
mounted, 

A bad old woman making a worse will, 
Which leaves you minus of the cash you 
counted 

As certain; — these are paltry things, and yet 

I've rarely seen the man they did not fret. 

XXII. 

I 'm a philosopher; confound them all ! 
Bills, beasts, and men, and — no ! not 
womankind ! 
With one good hearty curse I vent my gall, 

And then my stoicism leaves nought behind 
Which it can either pain or evil call, 

And 1 can give my whole soul up to mind ; 
Though what is soul or mind, their birth or 
growth, [both ! 

Is more than I know — the deuce take them 

XXIII. 

So now all things are d — n'd one feels at ease, 
As after reading Athanasius' curse, 

Which doth your true believer so much please : 
I doubt if any now could make it worse 

O'er his worst enemy when at his knees, 
'Tis so sententious, positive, and terse, 

Ami decorates the book of Common Prayer, 

Asiioih a rainbow the just clearing air. 



XXIV. 

Gulbeyaz and her lord were sleeping or 
At least one of them! — Oh, the heavy night 

When wicked wives, who love some bachelor 
Lie down in dudgeon to sigh for the light 

Of the grey morning, and look vainly for 
Its twinkle through the lattice dusky quite— - 

To toss, to tumble, doze, revive, and quake 

Lest their too lawful bed-fellow should wake 



These are beneath the canopy of heaven, 
Also beneath the canopy of beds, 

Four-posted and silk eurtain'd v which arc given 

For rich men and theii brides to lay tbeii 

heads T" driven 

Upon, in sheets white as what bards call 
Snow." 87 Well! 'tis all hap-hazard when 
one weds. 

Gulbeyaz was an empress, but had been 

Perhaps as wretched if a peasant's quean. 

XXVI. 

Don Juan in his feminine disguise, 

With all the damsels in their long array, 

Had bow'd themselves before th' imperial eyes 
And at the usual signal ta'en their way 

Back to their chambers, those long galleries 
In the seraglio, where the ladies lay 

Their delicate limbs; athousand bosoms thare 

Beating for love, as the caged bird s for air. 

XXVII. 

I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse 

The tyrant's 88 wish, " that mankind cmlj 

had [pierce :' 

One neck, which he with one fell stroke might 
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad 

And much more tender on the whole than 
fierce ; 
It being (not now, but only while a lad) 

That womankind had but one rosy mouth. 

To kiss them all at once from North to Soutb 

XXV III. 

Oh. enviable Briareus! with thy hands 

And heads, if thouhadst all things multiplied 
In such proportion ! — Butniy Muse withstands 

The giant thought of being a Titan's bride, 
Or travelling In Patagonian lands ; 

So let us back to Lilliput, and guide 
Our hero through the labyrinth of love. 
In which we left him several lines above. 

xxix. 
He went forth with the lovely Odalisques, 89 

At the given signal join'd to their array; 
And though he certainly ran many risks, 

Vet he could not at times keep, by the wa» 



DON JUAN. 



403 



(Although the consequences of such frisks 

Arc worse than the worst damages men pay 
In moral England, where the thing's a tax,) 
From ogling all their charms from breasts to 
backs. 



Still he forgot not his disguise : — along 

The galleries from room to room they walk'd, 

A virgin-like and edifying throng, [stalk'd 
By eunuchs flank'd ; while at their head there 

A dame who kept up discipline among [talk'd, 
The female ranks, so that none stirr'd or 

Without her sanction on their she-parades : 

Her title was " the Mother of the Maids." 



Whether she was a " mother." I know not, 
Or whether they were " maids" who call'd 
her mother ; 

But this is her seraglio title, got 

I know not how, but good as any other ; 

So Cantemii-oo can tell you, or De Tott ;91 
Her office was to keep aloof or smother 

All bad propensities in fifteen hundred 

Young women, and correct them when they 
blunder'd. 

XXXII. 

A goodly sinecure, no doub*. ! but made 
More easy by the absence of all men — 

Except his majesty, — who, with her aid, 
And guards, and bolts, and walls, and now 
and then 

A slight example, just to cast a shade 

Along the rest, contrived to keep this den 

Of beauties cool as an Italian convent, 

Where all the passions have, alas ! but one vent. 

XXXIII. 

And what is that? Devotion, doubtless — 
how [will 

Could you ask such a question? — but we 
Continue. As I said, this goodly row 

Of ladies of all countries at the will 
Of one good man, with stately march and slow, 

Like water-lilies floating down a rill — 
Or rather lake — for rills do not run slowly, — 
Paced on most maiden-like and melancholy. 



XXXIV. 



there, 



apartments, 



Like birds, or boys, or bedlamites broke loose, 
Waves at spring-tide, or women any where 
When freed from bonds (which are of no 
great use 



After all), 01 like Irish at a lair, [truce 

^ Their guards being gone, and as it were a 
Establish'd between them and bondage, they 
Began to sing, dance, chatter, smile, and play. 

XXXV. 

Their talk, of course, ran most on tne new comer ; 

Her shape, her hair, her air, her everything - 
Some thought her dress did not so much 
become her, 

Or wonder'd at her ears without a ring ; 
Some said her years were getting nigh theii 
summer, 

Others contended they were but in spring; 
Some thought her rather masculine in height, 
While others wish'd that she had been so quite 

XXXVI. 

But no one doubted on the whole, that she 
Was what her dress bespoke, a damsel fail 

And fresh, and " beautiful exceedingly," 
Who with the brightest Georgians 92 migh 
compare : 

They wonder'd how Gulbeyaz, too, could be 
So silly as to buy slaves who might share 

(If that his Highness wearied of his bride) 

Her throne and power, and every thing beside 

XXXVII. 

But what was strangest in this virgin crew, 
Although her beauty was enough to vex, 

After the first investigating view, 

They all found out as few, or fewer, speck 

In the fair form of their companion new, 
Than is the custom of the gentle sex, 

When they survey, with Christian eyes or 
Heathen, 

In anew face, " the ugliest creature breathing." 

xxxvm. 

And yet they had their little jealousies, 
Like all the rest; but upon this occasion. 

Whether there are such things as sympathies 
Without our knowledge or our approbation, 

Although they could not see through his dis- 
guise, 
All felt a soft kind of concatenation, 

Like magnetism, or devilism, or what 

You please — we will not. quarrel about that- 

XXXIX. 

But certain 'tis they all felt for their new 
Companion something newer still, as 'twere 

A sentimental friendship through and through, 
Extremely pure, which made them all concur 

In wishing her their sister, save a few 

Who wish'd they had a brother just likelier 

Whom, if they were at h<rne in. sweet Circassia, 

They would prefer to Padi^ha^ 3 or Pacha. 



404 



DON JUAN. 



Of those who had most genius for this sort 
Of sentimental friendship, there were three, 

Lolah, Katinka 94 . and Dudu ; in short. 
(To save description) fair as fair can be 

Were they, according to the best report, 
Though differing i» stature and degree, 

And clime and time, and country and com- 
plexion ; 

They all alike admired their new connection. 

XLI. 

Lolah was dusk as India and as warm ; 

Katinka was a Georgian 95 , white and red, 
With great blue eyes, a lovely hand and arm, 

And feet so small they scarce seem'd made 
to tread, 
But rather skim the earth ; while Dudu's form 

Look'd more adapted to be put to bed, 
Being somewhat large, and languishing, and 

lazy, 
Yet of a beauty that would dri ve you crazy. 

XLII. 

A kind of sleepy Venus seem'd Dudu, 
Yet very fit to " murder sleep " in those 

Who gazed upon her cheek's transcendent hue, 
Her Attic forehead, and her Phidian nose: 

Few angles were there in her form, 'tis true, 
Thinner she might have been, and yet scarce 
lose; 

Yet, after all, 'twould puzzle to say where 

It would not spoil some separate charm to pare. 

XLIII. 

She was not violently lively, but 

Stole on yourspirit like a May-day breaking; 
Her eyes were not too sparkling, yet, hall-shut, 

They put beholders in a tender taking ; 
She look'd (this simile's quite new) just cut 

From marble,like Pygmalion's statue waking, 
The mortal and the marble still at strife, 
And timidly expanding into life. 

XLIV. 

Lolah demanded the new damsel's name — 
" Joanna." — Well, a pretty name enough. 

Katinka ask'd hei also whence she came — 
" From Spain." — " But where is Spain ? " — 
"Don't ask such stuff, [shame!" 

Nor show your Georgian ignorance — for 
Said Lolah, with an accent rather rough, 

To poor Katinka : '• Spain 's an island near 

Morocco, betwixt Egypt and Tangier." 

XLV. 

Dudu said nothing, but sat down beside 
Joanna, playing with her veil or hair ; 

And looking at her steadfastly, she sigh'd. 
As if she pitied her for being tbere^ 



A pretty stranger without friend or ?<uide, 

And all abash'd, too, at the general stare 
Which welcomes hapless strangers in all places, 
With kind remarks upon their mien and faces * 

XL VI. 

But here the Mother of the Maids drew near, 
With, " Ladies, it is time to go to rest. 

I'm puzzled what to do with you, my dear," 
She added to Juanna, their new goes: • 

"Your coming has been unexpected heie. 
And every couch is occupied ; you b/jd bes» 

Partake of mine ; but by to-morrow early 

We will have all things settled for you fairly/ 

XLVII. 

Here Lolah interposed — " Mamma, you know 

You don't sleep soundly, and I cannot bear 
That any body should disturb you so; 

I '11 take Juanna ; we 're a slenderer pair 
Than you would make the half of; — don't say 
no: [care." 

And I of your young charge will take due 
But here Katinka interfered, and said, 

" She also had compassion and a bed." 

XLVIIl. 

" Besides, I hate to sleep alone," quoth she 
The matron frown'd : " Why so?" — ' Foi 
fear of ghosts," 

Replied Katinka ; "I am sure I see 

A phantom upon each of the four posts ; 

And then I have the worst dreams that can be 

Ol Guebres, Giaours, and Ginns,and Qoah 

in hosts." [you 

The dame replied, " Between your dreams and 

1 fear Juanna's dreams would be but lew. 

XLIX. 

" You, Lotah, must continue still to lie 

Alone, for reasons which don't matter ; you 

The same, Katinka, until by and by ; 
And 1 shall place Juanna with Dudu, 

"Who 's quiet, inoffensive, silent, shy, 

And will not toss and chatter the nighl 
through. 

What say you, child? — Dudu said nothing, as 

Her talents were of the more silent class ; 

L. 

But she rose up, and kiss'd the matron's brow 
Between the eyes, and Lolah on both cheeky 
Katinka, too : and with a gentle bow 

(Ourt'sies are neither used by Turks nor 
Greeks) 
She took Juanna by the hand to show 

Their place of rest, and left to both thcil 
piques, 
The others pouting at the matron's preferen; 
Of Dudd, though they held their tongues fro 
deference. 



DON JUAN. 



405 



It Wis a spacious chamber (Oda is 
The Turkish. title), and ranged round the wall 

Were couches.toilets — and much more than this 
I might describe, as I have seen it all, 

But it suffices — little was amiss; 

T was on the whole a nobly furnish' d hall, 

With all things ladies want, save one or two, 

And even those were nearer than they knew. 

LII. 

Dudu, as has been said, was a sweet creature. 
Not very dashing, but extremely winning, 

With the most regulated charms of feature, 
Which painters cannot catch like faces sin- 
ning 

Against proportion — the wild strokes of nature 
Which they hit off at once in the beginning, 

Fall of expression, right or wrong, that strike, 

A.nd pleasing, or unpleasing, still are like. 

LIU. 

But she was a soft landscape of mild earth, 
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet, 

Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth, 
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it 

Than are your mighty passions and so forth, 
Which, some call " the sublime : " I wish 
they 'd try it : 

I 've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, 

And pity lovers rather more than seamen. 

LIV. 

But she was pensive more than melancholy.. 
And serious more than pensive, and serene, 

It may be, more than either — not unholy 
Her thoughts, at least till now, appear to 
have been. [wholly 

The strangest thing was, beauteous, she was 
Unconscious, albeit turn'd of quick seventeen 

That she was fair, or dark, or short, or tall ; 

She never thought about herself at all. 

LV. 

And therefore was she kind and gentle as 
TheAgc of Gold (when gold was yet unknown; 

By which its nomenclature came to pass; 
Thus most appropriately has been shown 

" Lucus a non lucendo,' not what was, 

But what watsiiot; asortof style that's grown 

Extremely common in this age, whose metal 

Tne devil may decompose, but never settle: 

LVI. 

I think it may be of " Corinthian Brass," 96 
Which was a mixture of all metals, but 

The brazen uppermost.) Kind reader ! pass 
This long parenthesis : 1 could not shut 



It sooner for the soui of me, and class 

My faults even with your own . whick 
meaneth, Put 
A kind construction upon them and me 
But that you won't — then don't — I am nol 
less free. 

r.vn. 
'T is time we should return to plain narration. 
And thus my narrative proceeds : — Dudu, 
With every kindness short of ostentation, 

Show'd Juan,or Juanna, through and through 

This labyrinth of females, and each station 

Described — what 's strange — in words ex 

tremely lew : 

I have but one simile, and that *s a blunder, 

For wordless woman, which is silent thunder 

LVIII. 

And next she gave her (I say her, because 
The gender still was epicene, at least 

In outward show, which is a saving clause) 
An outline of the customs of the East, 

With all their chaste integrity of laws. 
By which the more a harem is increased, 

The stricter doubtless grow the vestal duties 

Of any supernumerary beauties. 

LIX. 

And then she gave Juanna a chaste kiss : 
Dudu was fond of kissing — which I m sun 

That nobody can ever take amiss. 

Because 't is pleasant, so that it be puie, 

Anil between iemales means no more than 

ihis — [newer. 

That, they have nothing better near, or 

' Kiss" rhymes to "bliss" in fact as well as 
verse — 

I wish it nevei led to something worse. 

LX. 

In perfect innocence she then unmade 
Her toilet, which co.->t little, for she was 

A clnid of Nature, carelessly array 'd ; 
If fond of a chance ogle at her glass, 

'T was like the fawn, which, in the lake dis 
play'd, 
Beholds her own shy, shadowy image pass, 

When first she starts, and then returns to peep, 

Admiring this new native of the deep. 

XI. 

And one by one her articles of dress 

Were laid aside ; but not before she ofler'd 

Her aid to fair Juanna, whose excess 

Of modesty declined the assistance protfer'd: 

Which pass'd well off: — as she could do no less; 
Though by this politesse she rather sutier'd, 

Pricking her lingers with those cursed pnis 

Whii-h surely were invented ua our sins,— 



40G 



DON JUAN. 



Lin. 
Making a woman like a porcupine, 

Not to be rashly touch'd But still more 
dread, 
Oh ye! whose fate it is, as once 'twas mine. 

In early youth, to turn a lady's maid ; — 
I did my very boyish best to shine 

In tricking her out for a masquerade: 
The pins were placed sufficiently, but not 
Stuck all exactly in the proper spot. 

LXIII. 
But these are foolish things to all the wise, 

And I love wisdom more than she loves me ; 
My tendency is to philosophise 

On most things, from a tyrant to a tree ; 
But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge iiies. 

What are we ? and whence came we ? v. hat 
shall be 
Our ultimate existence? what's our present? 
Are questions answerless, and yet incessant. 

LXIV. 

There was deep silence in the chamber: dim 
And distant from each other bum u thelights, 

And slumber hover'd o'er each lovely limb 
Of the fair occupants: if there be sprites, 

They should have walk'd there in their spiight- 
liest trim, 
By way of change from their sepulchral sites, 

And shown themselves as ghosts of better taste 

Than haunting some old ruin or wild waste. 

LXV. 

Many and beautiful lay those around, 

Like flowers of different hue, and clime, and 
root, 
In some exotic garden sometimes found, 
With cost, and care, and warmth induced 
to shoot. 
One with her auburn tresses lightly bound, 

And fair brows gently drooping, as the fruit 
Nods from the tree, was slumbering with soft 

breath, 
And lips apart, which show'd the pearls beneath. 

LXVI. 

One with her flush'd cheek laid on her white 

arm, 

And raven ringlets gather'd in dark crowd 

Above her" brow; lay dreaming soft and warm; 

And smiling through her dream, as through 

a cloud [charm, 

The moon breaks, half unveil'd each further 

As, slightly stirring in her snowy shroud, 
Her beauties seized the unconscious hour of 

night 
KM bashfully to struusde into light 



LXVII. 

This is no bull, although it sounds so; for 
"J" was night, but there were lamps, as hati 
been said. 
A third's all pallid aspect offer'd more 

The traits of sleeping sorrow, and betray 'd 

Through the heaved breast the dream of some 

far shore 

Beloved and deplored; while slowly stray 'd 

(As night-dew, on a cypress glittering, tinges 

The black bough), tear-drops through her oyes' 

dark fringes 

LXVIII. 

A fourth as marble, statue-like and still, 
Lay in a breathless, hush'd, and stony sleep 

VVhite, cold, and pure, as looks a frozen rill, 
Or the snow minaret on an Alpine steep, 

Or Lot's wife done in salt. — or what you will : — 
My similes are gather'd in a heap, 

So pick and choose — perhaps you'll be content 

With a carved lady on a monument, 

J.XIX. 

And lo ! a fifth appears; — and what is she? 

A lady of a " certain age," which means 
Certainly aged — what her years might be 

I know not, never counting past their teens; 
But there she slept, not quite so fair to see, 

As ere that awful period intervenes 
Which lays both men and women on the shelf. 
To meditate upon their sins and self. 

I.XX. 

But all this time how slept, or dream'd, Dudu? 

With strict inquiry I could ne'er discover. 
And scorn to add a syllable untrue ; 

But ere the middle watch was hardly over 

Just when the fading lamps waned dim and 

blue, [hover, 

And phantoms hover'd, or might seem to 
To those who like their company, about 
The apartment, on a sudden she scream'd out: 

LXXI. 

And that so loudly, that upstarted all 

The Oda, in a general commotion: 
Matron and maids, and those whom you may 
call [ocean, 

Neither, eame <:i.>wding like the waves of 
One on the other, throughout the whole hall, 

All trembling, wondering, without the least 
notion 
More than I have myself of what :ould make 
The calm Dudu so Unbulently wake. 

LXXU. 
But wide awake she was, and round her Kd, 

With floating draperies and with flying hair, 
With eager eyes, and light but hurried tread, 

And bosoms, arms, and ankles glancing bare 



DON JUAN. 



407 



And blight as any meteor ever bred 

By the North Pole, — they sought her cause 
of care, 
For she seem'd agitated, flush'd,and frighten'd, 
Her eye dilated and her colour heighten'd. 

I.XXIIJ. 

B«r. what is strange — and a strong proof how 
great 

A blessing is sounl sleep — Juanna lay 
As fast as ever husband by his mate 

In holy matrimony snores away. 
Not all the clamour broke her happy state 

Of slumber, ere they shook her, — so they say 
At least, — and then she, too, unclosed her eyes, 
And yawn'd a good deal with discreet surprise. 

LXX1V. 

And now commenced a strict investigation, 
Which, as all spoke at once, and more than 
once 

Conjecturing, wondering, asking a narration, 
Alike might puzzle either wit or dunce 

To answer in a very clear oration. 

Dudu had never pass'd for wanting sense, 

But, being " no orator as Brutus is," 

Could not at first expound what was amiss. 

LXXV. 

At length she said, that in a slumber sound 
She dream'd a dream, of walking in a wood — 

A " wood obscure," like that where Dante found 
Himself in at the age when all grow good ; 

life's half way house, where dames with virtue 
crown'd 
Run much less risk of lovers turning mrlc; 

And that this wood was lull of pleasant fruits, 

And trees of goodly growth and spreading roots ; 

LXXVI. 

And in the mid.-t a golden apple grew, — 
A most prodigious pippin — but it hung 

Rather too high and dhtant ; that she threw 
Her glances on it, and then, longing, flung 

Stones and whatever she could pick up, to 
Bring down the fruit, which still perversely 
clung 

To its own bough, and dangled yet in sight, 

But always at a most provoking height; — 

LXXV1I. 

That on a sudden, when she least had hope, 
It fell down of its own accord before 

Her feet; that her first movement was to stoop 
And pick it up, and bite it to the core, 

That just as her young lip began to ope 
Upon the goklen fruit the vision bore, 

A bee flew out, and .-lung her to the heart, 

And so-— she awoke with a great scream and 
start. 



i.xxvm. 

All this she told with some confusion ana 
Dismay, tnc usual consequence of dreams 

Of the unpleasant kind, with none at hand 
To expound their vain and visionary gleams. 

I 've known some odd ones which seem'd 
really plann'd 
Pro] hctically, or that which one deems 

A " strange coincidence," to use a phrase 

By which such things arc settled now-a-days 97 

I.XXIX. 

The damsels, who had thoughts of some great 
harm, 

Began, as is the consequence of fear, 
To scold a Tittle at the false alaim 

That broke for nothing on their sleeping ear. 
The matron, too, was wroth to leave her warm 

Bed for the dream she had been obliged to 
hear, 
And chafed at poor Dudu, who only sigh'd, 
And said, that she was sorry she had cried. 

LXXX. 

" I 've heard of stories of a cock and bull ; 

But visions of an apple and a bee, 
To take us from our natural rest, and pull 

The whole Oda from their beds at half-past 
three, 
Would make us think the moon is at its fulL 

You surely are unwell, child ! we must see. 
To-morrow, what his Highness's physician 
Will say to this hysteric of a vision. 

LXXXI. 

" And poor Juanna, too, the child's first night 
Within these walls, to be broke in upon 

With such a clamour — I had thought it right 
That the young stranger should not lie alone, 

And, as the quietest of all, she might 

With you, Dudu, a good night's rest have 
known ; 

But now I must transfer her to the charge 

Of Lolah — though her couch is not so large." 

I.XXXII. 

Lolah's eyes sparkled at the proposition ; 

But poor Dudu, with huge drops in her own. 
Resulting from the scolding or the vision, 

Implored that present pardon m 'ghtbc shown 
For this first fault, and that on no condition 

(She. added in a soft and piteous tone) 
Juanna should be taken fn in her, and 
Her future dreads should all be kept in hand. 

r.xxxm. 
She promised never more to have a dream, 

At least to dream so loudly as just, now; 
She wender'd at herself how she could scream— 

'T^as foolish, nervous, as she must allow 



408 



DON JUAN. 



A fond hallucination, and a theme 

For laughter — but she felt her spirits low, 
And begg'd they would excuse her; she'd get 

over 
This weakness in a few hours, and recover. 

LXXXIV. 

And here Juanna kindly inteiposed, 
And said she felt herself extremely well 

Where she then was, as her sound sleep dis- 
closed, 
When all around rang like a tccsin bell; 

She did not find herself the least disposed 
To quit her gentle partner, and to dwell 

Apart from one who had no sin to show, 

Save that of dreaming once "mal-a-propos. 

i.xxxv. 
As thus Juanna spoke, Dudii turn'd round 

And hid her face within Juanna's breast; 
Her neck alone was seen, but that was found 

The colour of a budding rose's crest. 
1 can't tell why she blush'd, nor can expound 

The mystery of this rupture of their rest; 
All that I know is, that the facts I state 
Are true as truth has ever been of late. 

I.XXXV I. 

And so good night to them,— or, if you will, 
Good morrow — for the cock had crown, and 
light 

Began to clothe each Asiatic hill, 

And the mosque crescent struggled into sight 

Of the long caravan, which in the chill 
Of dewy dawn wound slowly round each 
height, 

That stretches to the stony belt, which girds 

Asia, where Kaff looks down upon the Kurds. 

LXXXVII. 

With the first ray, or rather grey of morn, 
Gulbeyaz rose" from restlessness; and pale 

As Passion rises, with its bosom worn, 

Array'd herself with mantle, gem, and veil. 

The nightingale that sings with the deip thorn, 
Which fable places in her breast of wail, 

Is lighter far of heart and voice than those 

Whose headlong passions form their proper 
woes. 

I.XXXVIII. 

And that's the moral of this composition, 
If people would but see its real drift; — 

B a that they will not do without suspicion, 
Because all gentle readers have the gift 

Of closing 'gainst the light their orbs of vision; 
While gentle writers also love to lift 

Their voices 'gainst each other, which is natural, 

The numbers are too great for them to flatter all. 



I.XXXIX. 

Rose the sultana from a bed of splendour, . 

Softer than the soft Sybarite's, who cried 
Aloud because his feelings were too tender 

To brook a ruffled rose-leaf by his side.— 
So beautiful that art could little mend her, 

Though pale with conflicts between lovi 
and pride ; — 
So agitated was she with b r error, 
She did not even look into ihe mirror. 



Also arose about the self-same time, 
Perhaps a little later, her great lord, 

Matter of thirty kingdoms so sublime, 

And of a wife by whom he was abhorr'd ; 

A thing of much less import in that clime — 
At least to those of incomes which afford 

The filling up their whole connubial carg" — 

Than where two wives are under an embargo 

xci. 
He did not think much on the mattci, nor 

Indeed on any other : as a man 
He liked to have a handsome paramour 

At hand, as one may like to have a fan, 
And therefore of Circassians had good store, 

As an amusement after the Divan ; 
Though an unusual fit of love, or duty, 
Had made him lately bask in his bride s beam y 

XCII. 

And now he rose; and after due ablutions 

Exacted by the customs of the East, 
And prayers and other pious evolutions. 

He drank six cups of coffee at the least, ' 
And then withdrew to hear about the Russians 

Whose victories had recently increased 
In Catherine's reign, whom glory still adores, 

As greatest of all sovereigns ami w s. 

XCIII. 
But oh, thou grand legitimate Alexander ! 

Her son's sc n, let not this last phrase offend 
Thine ear, if it should reach — and now rhymes 
wander 

Almost as far as Petersburgh, and lend 
A dreadful impulse to each loud meander 

Of murmuring Liberty's wide waves, wbi' fc 
blend 
Their roar even with the Baltic's— aO yout<e 
Your father's son, 'tis quite enough for me. 



To call men love-begotten, or proclaim 
Their mothers as the antipodes of Timon, 

That hater of mankind, would be a shame, 
A libel, or whaler you please to rhyme .-e 



DON JUAN. 



409 



But people's ancestors are history's game ; 

And if one lady's slip could leave a crime on 
All generations, I should like to know 
What pedigree the best would have to show? 

xcv. 
Had Catherine and the sultan understood 
Their own true interests, which kings rarely 
know, 
'Intit 'tis taught by lessons rather rude, 

There was a way to end their strife, although 
Perhaps precarious, had they but thought 
good, 
Without the aid of prince or plenipo : 
She to dismiss her guards and he his harem, 
And for their other matters, meet and share 
'em. 

XCVI. 

Rut as it was, his Highness had to hold 

His daily couneil upon ways and means 
How to encounter with this martial scold, 

This modern Amazon and queen of queans ; 
And the perplexity eould not be told 

Of all the pillars of the state, which leans 
Sometimes a little heavy on the backs 
Of those who cannot lay on a new tax. 

xevu. 
Meantime Gulbeyaz, when her king was gone, 

Retired into her boudoir, a sweet place 
For love or breakfast; private, pleasing, lone, 

And rich with all contrivances which grace 
Those gay recesses: — many a precious stone 

Sparkled along its roof, and many a vase 
Of porcelain held in the fetter'd flowers, 
Those captive soothers of a captive's hours. 

XCVIII. 

Mother of pearl, and porphyry, and marble, 

Vied with each other on this costly spot ; 
\nd singing birds without were beard to 
warble ; [grot 

And the stain'd glass which lighted this fair 
Varied each ray ; — but all descriptions garble 

The true effect, and so we had better not 
Be too minute ; an outline is the best, — 
A lively reader's fancy does the rest. 

xcix. 
And here she summon'd Baba, and required 

Don Juan at his hands, and information 
Of what had pass'd since all the slaves retired, 

Anil whether he had occupied their station; 
If matters had been managed as desired, 

And his disguise with due consideration 
Kept up; and above all, fhe where and how 
He bud nuss'd the night, was what she wish'd 
It know. 



Baba, with some embarrassment, replied 

To this long catechism of questions, ask d 
More easily than answer'd, — that he had tried 
His best to obey in what he had been task'd ; 
But there seem'd something that he wish'd to 
hide, 
Which hesitation more betray 'd thanmask'd,- 
He scrateh'd his car, the infallible resource 
To which embarrass'd people have recou se 

ci. 
Gulbeyaz was no model of true patience, 
Nor much disposed to wait in word 01 
deed ; 
She liked quick answers in all conversations, 
And when she saw him stumbling like a 
steed 
In his replies, she puzzled him for fresh ones; 
And as his speech grew still more broken- 
kneed, 
Her cheek began to flush, her eyes to sparkle. 
And her proud brow's blue veins to swell and 
darkle. 



When Baba saw these symptoms, which he 
knew 
To bode him no great good, he deprecated 
Her anger, and beseech'd she'd hear him 
through— [latcd: 

He could not help the thing which he re- 
Then out it came at length, that to DudiV 
Juan was given in charge, as hath been 
stated ; 
But not by Baba's fault, he said, and swore on 
The holy camel's hump, besides the Koran. 

cm 
The chief dame of the Oda, upon whom 

The discipline of the whole harem bore, 
As soon as they re-enter'd their own room, 

For Baba's function stopt short atthedoo' 
Had sealed all ; nor could he then presume 

(The aforesaid Baba) just then to do more, 
Without exciting such suspicion as 
Might make the matter still worse than it was. 



He hoped, indeed he thought, he could besure 
Juan had not betray'd himself ; in fact 

'T was certain that his conduct had oeen pui"., 
Because a foolish or imprudent act 

Would not alone have made hnn insecure 
But ended in hi < being found out ami xuck'd. 

And thrown into the sea. — Thus Baba spoke 

Of all save Dudu's dream, which was no joke 



410 



DON JUAN. 



This he discreetly kept in the back ground, 
And talk'd away — and might have talk'd 
till now, 
For any further answer that he found, 

So deep an anguish wrung Gulbeyaz' brow : 
Her cheek turn'd ashes, ears rung, brain 
whirl'd round, 
As if she had received a sudden blow, 
And the heart's dew of pain sprang fast and 

chill;; 
O'er her fair front, like Morning's on a lily. 

cvi. 

Although she was not of the fainting sort, 
Baba thought she would faint, but there he 
err'd — 
It was but a convulsion, whieh though short 

Can never be described ; we all have heard, 
And some of us have felt thus " all amort," 
When things beyond the common have 
occurr'd ; — 
Gulbeyaz proved in that brief agony 
What she could ne'er express — then how 
should I ? 

evil. 
She stood a moment as a Pythoness 

Stands on her tripod, agonised, and full 
Of inspiration gatlier'd from distress, [pull 
When all the heart-strings like wild horses 
The heart asunder; — then, as more or less 
Their speed abated or their strength grew 
dull, 
She sunk down on her seat by slow degrees, 
And bow'd her throbbing head o'er trembling 
knees. 

CV1II. 

Her face declined and was unseen ; her hair 
Fell in long tresses like theweeping willow, 

Sweeping the marble underneath her chair, 
Or rather sofa, (for it was all pillow, 

A low, soft ottoman,) and black despair _ 
Stirr'd up and down her bosom like a billow, 

Which rushes to some shore whose shingle3 
check 

»ts farther course, but must receive its wreck. 

cix. 

Her head hung down, and her long hair in 
stooping 

Conceal'd her features better than a veil ; 
And one hand o'er the ottoman lay drooping, 

White, waxen, and as alabaster pale : 
Would that I were a painter! to be grouping 

All that a poet drags into detail ! 
Oh that my words were colours ! but theirtints 
Mav serv? perhaps as outiines or slight hints. 



Baba, who knew by experience wber. lo tfiJk 

And when to hold his tongue. ni»v held it 
till 
This passion might blow o'er, nor dared to balk 

Gulbeyaz taciturn or speaking will. 
At length she rose up, and began to walk 

Slowly along the room, but silent still, 
And her brow clear'd, but not her troubled eye; 
The wind was down, but still the sea ran high. 

CXI. 

She stopp'd, and raised her head to speak- — 

but paused, 

And then moved on again with rapid pace; 

Then slacken'd it, which is the march most 

caused [trace 

By deep emotion : — you may sometimes 

A feeling in each footstep, as disclosed 

By Sallust in his Catiline, who, chased 
By all the demons of all passions, show'd 
Their work even by the way in which he 
tiode. 

cxn. 

Gulbeyaz stopp'd and beckon'd Baba: — 
" Slave ! 
Bring the two slaves !"she said in alow tone 
But one which Baba did not like to brave, 
And yet he shudder'd, and seem'd rathei 
prone 
To prove reluctant, and begg'd leave to cravt 
(Though he well knew the meaning) to bt 
shown 
What slaves her highness wish'd to indicate, 
For fear of any error, like the laie. 

cxin. 
" The Georgian and her paramour," replied 
The imperial bride — and added, " Lettht 
boat 
Be ready by the secret portal's side . 

You know the rest." The words stuck ic 
her throat, 
Despite her injured love and fiery pride ; 
And of this Baba willingly took note, 
And begg'd by every hair of Mahomet's beard 
She would revoke the order he had heard. 

cXIv. 
" To hear is to obey," he said ; " but still, 

Sultana, think upon the consequence : 
It is not that I shall not all fulfil 

Your orders, even in their seveiest sense ; 
But such precipitation may end ill, 

Even at your own imperative expense; 
I do not mean destruction and exposure, 
In case > r any premature disclosure , 



DON JUAN. 



411 



cxv. 

* Bat your own feelings. Even should all 
the rest 
Be hidden by the rolling waves which hid 
Already many a once love-beaten breast 

Deep in the caverns of the deadly tide— 
Yon love this boyish, new, seraglio guest, 

And if this violent remedy be tried — 
K tease my freedom, when I ftere assure you, 
Thut killing him is not the way to cure you." 

cxvr. 
" What dost thou know ot love or feeling?— 
Wretch! [" and do 

Begone ! ' she cried, with kindling eyes — • 
My bidding. ' Baba vanish'd, for to stretch 

His own remonstrance further he well knew 

Might end in acting as bis own "Jack Ketch;" 

And though he wish'd extremely to get 

through 

This awkward business without harm to others, 

He still preferr'd his own neck to another's. 

cxvir. 
Away he went then upon his commission. 
Growling and grumbling in good Turkish 
phrase 
Against all women of whate'er condition, 

Especially sultanas and their ways ; 
Their obstinacy, pride, and indecision, 

Their never knowing their own mind two 
days, 
The trouble that they gave, their immorality, 
Which made him daily bless his own neutrality. 

CXVIII. 

And then he call"d his brethren to his aid, 

And sent one on a summons to the pair 
That they must instantly be well array 'd, 

And above all be comb'd even to a hair, 
And brought before the empress, who had made 

Inquiries after them with kindest care: 
At which Dudu look'd strange, and Juan silly ; 

But go they must at once, and will I — nill I. 

CXIX. 

And here I leave them at their preparation 
For the imperial presence, wherein whether 

(rulbeyaz show'd them both commiseration 
Or got rid of the parties altogether, 

Like other angry ladies of her nation, — 
Are things the turning of a hair or feather 

May settle : but far dp 'tfrom me to anticipate 

In what way feminine caprice may dissipate. 

CXX. 

I leave them for the present with good wishes, 
Though doubts of their well doing, to arrange 

Another part of history ; for the dishes 

Of this our banquet we must sometimes 
change ; 



And trusting Juan may escape the fishes, 

Although his situation now seems strange, 
And scarce secure, as such digressions are fate 
The Muse will take a little touch at warfare. 



Won 3Juan. 



CANTO THE SEVENTH. 



O Love ! Glory ! what are ye who fly 

Around us ever, rarely to alight ? 
There 's not a meteor in the polar sky 

Of such transcendent and more fleeting flight 
Chill, and chain'd to cold earth, we lift on high 

Our eyes in search of either lovely light ; 
A thousand and a thousand colours they 
Assume, then leave us on our freezing way. 



A nd such as they are, such my present tale is 
A non-descript and ever-varying rhyme, 

A versified Aurora Borealis, 

Which flashes o'er a waste and icy clime. 

When we know what all are, we must bewail 
us, 
But ne'ertheless I hope it is no crime 

To laugh at all things — for I wish to know 

What, after all, are all things — but a sJwio ? 



They accuse me — Me — the present writer of 
The present poem — of — I know not what — 

A tendency to under-rate and scolf 

At human power and virtue, and all that ; 

And this they say in language rather rough. 
Good God ! I wonder what they would be at ! 

I say no more than hath been said in Dante'a 

Verse, and by Solomon and by Cervantes ; 



By Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, 
Bv Fenelon, by Luther, and bv Plato ; 

Bv Tillotson, and Wesley, and Rousseau. 
Who knew this life was not worth a po\:it« 

T is not their fault, nor mine, if this be so— 
For my part. I pretend not to be Cato, 

Nor even Diogenes. — We live and die. 

But which is best, you know no more tfc»R I 



412 



DON JUAN. 



Borates said, our only knowledge was 

" To know that nothing could be known ; " 
a pleasant 

Science enough, whicl levels to an ass 

Each man of wisdom, future, past, or present. 

Newton (that proverb of the mind), alas ! 
Declared, with all his grand discoveries 
recent, 

That he himself felt only " like a youth 

Picking up shells by the great ocean — Truth." 

VI. 

Ecclesiastes said, " that all is vanity" — 
Most modern preachers say the same, or 
show it 

By their examples of true Christianity: 

111 short, all know, or very soon may know it; 

Am! in this scene of all-confess' d inanity, 
By saint, by sage, by preacher, and by poet, 

Must I restrain me, through the fear of strife, 

From holding up the nothingness of life? 

VII. 

Dogs, or men ! — for I flatter you in saying 

That ye are dogs — your betters far — ye may 
Read, or read not, what I am now essaying 

To show ye what ye are in every way. 
As little as the moon stops for the baying 
Of wolves, will the bright muse withdraw 
one ray 
From out her skies — then howl your idle wrath! 
While she still silvers o'er your gloomy path, 

vm. 
* Fierce loves and faithless wars" — I am not 
sure 
If this be the right reading — 'tis no matter; 
The fac> 's about the same, I am secure ; 

I sing them both, and am about to batter 
A town which did a famous siege endure, 

And was beleaguer';! both by land and water 
By SouvarofF, or Antdiee Suwarrow, 
Who loved blood as an alderman loves marrow. 

IX. 

The fortress is call'd Tsmail, and is placed 

Upon the Danube's left branch and left bank, 
With buildings in the Oriental taste, 

But still a fortress of the foremost rank, 
Or was at least, unless 'tis since defaced, 

Which with your conquerors is a common 
prank : 
It stands some eighty versts from the high sea, 
And measures round of toises thousand three. 

x. 
Within the extent of this fortification 

A borough is comprised along the height 
IJthwi the left, which from its loftier station 

Commands the city, and upon its site 



A Greek had raised around this eleTatxwi 

A quantity of palisades upright, 
So placed as to impede the Are of those 
Who held the place, and to assist die foe's 

XI. 

This circumstance may serve to give a notiou 
Of the high talents of this new Vauban • 

But the town ditch below was deep as itceac, 
The rampart higher than you d .wish t« 
hang 

But then them was a great want of precaution 
(Prithee, excuse this engineering slang). 

Nor work advanced, nor cover d way was there, 

To hint at least " Here is no thoroughfare." 
XII. 

But a stone bastion, with a narrow gorge, 
And walls as thick as most skulls born as yet ; 

Two batteries, cap-a-pie, as our St. George, 
< lase-mated 98 one, and t'other" abarbette,"^ 

Of Danube's bank took formidable charge; 
While two and twenty cannon duly set 

Rose over the town's right side, in bristling tier, 

Forty feet high, upon a cavalier. 

XIII. 

But from the river the town's open quite, 
Because the Turks could never be persuaded 

A Rpssian vessel e'er would heave in sight; 
And such their creed was, till they were in 
vaded, 

When it grew rather late to set things right. 
But as tke Danube could not well be waded 

They look'd upon the Muscovite flotilla, 

And only shouted, "Allah!" and "Bis Millah!' 

XIV. 

The Russians now were ready to attack ; 

But oh, ye goddesses of war and glory . 
How shall I spell the name of each Cossacque 

Who were immortal, could one tell their 
story ? 
Alas! what to their memory can lack ? 

Achilles' self was not more grim and gorv 
Than thousands of this new and polish \1 nation, 
Whose names want nothing but — pronun- 
ciation. 

XV. 

Still I '11 record a few, if but to increase 
Our euphony : there was Strongenoflf, and 
Strokonoff, 
Meknop.Serge Low. Arsniewofmodern Greece, 
And TschitsshakofF, and Roguenoflj and 
Chokenofl', 
And-others of twelve consonants apiece; 
And more might.be found out, if I could poke 
enough 
Into gazettes; but Fame (capricious strumpet* 
It seems has got an ear as wed as trumpet, 



DON JUAN. 



4J3 



XVI. 

And cannot tune those discords of narration, 
Which nvy be names at Moscow, into rhyme; 

Yet there w^ve several worth commemoration, 
As e'er was virgin of a nuptial chime ; 

Soft words, too, fitted for the peroration 
Of Londonderry drawling against time, 

Ending in " ischskin," " ousckin," "iflskchy," 
" ouski," 

Oi' whom we can insert but Rousamouski, 

XVII. 
Schcrematoff, and Chrematoff, Koklophti, 

Koclobski, Kourakin, and Mouskin Pouskin, 
All proper men of weapons, as e'er scofTd high 

Against a foe, or ran a sabre through skin : 
Little cared they for Mahomet or Mufti, 

Unless to make their kettle-drums a new skin 
Out of theirhides.if parchmenthad grown dear, 
And no more handy substitute been near. 

xviii. 
Then there were foreigners of much renown, 

Of various nations, and all volunteers ; 
Not righting for their country or its crown, 

But wishing to be one day brigadiers: 
Also to have the sacking of a town ; 

A pleasant thing to young men at their years. 
'Mongst th?m were several Englishmen of pith, 
Sixteen caTd Thomson, and nineteen named 
Smith. 

XIX. 

Jack Thomson and Bill Thomson ; — all the rest 

Hadbeen caH'd"/e?nmy," after the great bard; 
I don't know whether they had arms or crest, 

But such a godfather's as good a card. 
Three of the Smiths were Peters ; but the best 

Amongst them all, hard blows to inflict or 
ward, 
Was he, since so renown'd "in country quarters 
At Halifax;" but now he served the Tartars. 

xx. 
The rest were Jacks and Gills and Wills and 
Bills, [Smith 

Bat when I've added that the elder Jack 
Was born in Cumberland among the hills, 

And thathis father wa* an honest blacksmith, 
1 ve said all J know of a name that tills 

Three lines of the despatch in taking 
"Schmacksmith," 
A village of Moldavia's waste, wherein 
He fell, immortal in a bulletin. 

XXI. 

I wonder (although Mars no doubt 's a god I 
Praise) if a man's name in a bulletin 

May make up for a bullet in his body? 
I hope this Hu!p question is no s. : r., 



Because, though I am but a simple n )ddy. 
I think one Shakspeare puts the same thou gh» 
in 
The mouth of some one in his plays so dotin ; 
Which many people pass for wits by quoting 



Then there were Frenchmen, gallant, young 
and gay : 

But I 'm too great a patriot to record 
Their Gallic names upon a glorious day ; 

I 'd rather tell ten lies than say a word 
Of truth ; — such truths are treason; they betraj 

Their country ; and as traitors are abhorrM 
Who name the French in English, save to shovt 
How Peace sho.ildmake John Bull the French 
man's foe. 



The Russians, having built two batteries on 
An isle near Ismail, had two ends in view 

The first was to bombard it, and knock down 
The public buildings and the private too, 

No matter what poor souls might be undone 
The city's shape suggested this, 'tis true ; 

Form'd like an amphitheatre, each dwelling 

Presented a fine mark to throw a shell in. 

XXIV. 

The second object was to profit by 

The moment of the general consternation, 

To attack the Turks' flotilla, which lay nigh 
Extremely tranquil, anchor 'd at its station 

But a third motive was as probably 
To frighten them into capitulation ; 

A phantasy which sometimes seizes warriors, 

Unless they are game as bidl-dogs and fox 
teniers. 



A habit rather blameable, which is 

That of despising those we combat with, 

Common in many cases, was in this 

Thecause of killing Tchitchitzkotf and Smith 

One of the valorous " Smiths" whom we shall 

miss [•■ pith ; ' 

Out of those nineteen who late rhymed tc 

But 'tis a name so spread o'er 'Sir" anr! 
"Madam," ["Adam* 

That one would think the first who bore it 



The Russian batteries were incomplete, 

Because they were constructed in a hurry ; 

Thus the same cause which makes a verse 

want feet, [M'ircaj 

And throws a cloud o'er Longman and Joha 



414 



DON JUAN, 



When the sale of new books is not so fleet 

As they who print them think is necessary, 
May 1'kewise put off i or a time what story 
Souict.mes calls "murder," and at others 
" glory." 

XXVII. 

Whether it was their engineer's stupidity, 
Their haste or waste, I neither know nor care, 

Or some contractor's personal cupidity, 
Saving Ins soul by cheating in the ware 

Of homicide, but there was no solidity 
In the new batteries erected there ; 

They either miss'd.or they were never miss'd, 

And added greatly to the missing list. 

XXVIII. 

A sad miscalculation about distance 
Made all their naval matters incorrect ; 

Three fireships lost their amiable existence 
Before they reach'd a spot to take effect: 

The match was lit too soon, and no assistance 
Could remedy this lubberly defect ; 

They blew up in the middle of the river, 

While, though 't was dawn, the Turks slept 
fast as ever. 

XXIX. 

At seven they rose, however, and survey *d 
The Russ flotilla getting under way ; 

T was nine, when still advancing undismay'd, 
Within a cable's length their vessels lay 

Off Ismail, and commenced a cannonade. 
W 7 hich was return'd with interest, I may say, 

And by a fire of musketry and grape, 

And shells and shot of every size and shape. 

XXX. 

For six hours bore they without intermission 
The Turkish fire, and, aided by their own 

Land batteries, work'd their guns with great 
precision : 
At length they found mere cannonade alone 

By no means would produce the town's sub- 
mission.; 
And made a signal to retreat at one. 

One Dark blew up, a second near the works 

P. 'inning aground, was taken by the Turks. 

XXXI. 

The Moslem, too, had lost both ships and men ; 

But when they saw the enemy retire, 
Their Deltiis l!>0 mann'd some boats, and sail'd 
again. 

And gall'd the llussiaus with a heavy fire, 
And tried to make a landing on the main ; 

But here theeff-.ct fell short of their desire: 
Count. Hamas drove them back into the water 
Pell-meii and with a whole gazette of slaughter. 



XXXII. 

" If (says the historian here) " I could rcpor* 
All that the Russians did upon this day. 

I think that several volumes would tall short, 
And I should still have many things to say : " 

Ami so he says no more — but pays his court 
To some distinguish'd strangers in that fray 

The Prince de Li gne.and Langeron, and Dumas. 

Names great as any that the roll of Fame has. 

XXXIII 

This being tit <sre aay show us what F;«n^ 
is: [how 

For out of these three " preux Chevaliers,' 
Many of common readers give a guess 

That such existed? (and they may live now 
For aught we know.) Renown 's all hit or miss; 

There 'sfortune even in fame, we must allow. 
'Tis true, the Memoirs of the Prince de Ligne 
Have half withdrawn from him oblivion's 
screen* 

XXXIV. 

But here are men who fought in gallantactions 
As gallantly as ever heroes fought, 

But buried in the heap of such transactions 
Their names are rarely found, nor often 
sought. [tions, 

Thus even good fame may suffer sad contrac- 
And is extinguish'd sooner than she ought: 

Of all our modern battles, I will bet 

You can't repeat nine names from each Ga* 
zette. 

XXXV. 

In short, this last attack, though rich in glory, 
Show'd that somewhere, somehow, there was 
a fault, 

And Admiral Ribas (known in Russian story) 
Most strongly recommended an assault ; 

In which he was opposed by young and hoary, 
Which made a long debate; but I must halt. 

For if I wrote down every warrior's speech, 

I doubt few readers eer waild mount t^e 
breach. 

xxxvt. 

There was a man, if that he was a man. 

Not that his manhood could be cail'd in 
question, 
For had he not been Hercules, his span 

Had been as short in youth as indigestion 
Made his last illness, when, all worn and wan, 

He died beneath a tree, as much unblest on 
Die scil of the green province lie had wasted. 
As e'e was locust on the land it blasted.' 



DON JUAN. 



415 



XXXVII. 

This was Potemkin — a great thing in days 
W iien nomicide and harlotry made great; 

If stars and tildes could entail long praise, 
His glory might ball equal his estate. 

This fellow, being six foot high, could raise 
A kind of phantasy proportionate 

In the then sovereign of the Russian people, 

Wiio measured men as you would do a steeple. 

XXXVIII. 

While things were in abeyance, Ribas sent 
A courier to the prince, and he succeeded 

In ordering matters after bis own bent; 
I cannot tell the way in which he pleaded, 

B>." sV-nrtly he had cause to be content. 
In tftc "Bean time, the batteries proceeded, 

And fourscore cannon on the Danube's border 

Were briskly fired and answer'd in due order. 

XXXIX. 

But on the thirteenth, when already part 
Of the troops were embark'd, the siege to 
raise, 

A courier on the spur inspired new heart 
Into all panters for newspaper praise, 

As well as dilettanti in war's art, 

By his despatches couch'd in pithy phrase ; 

Announcing the appointment of that lover of 

Battles to the command, Field-Marshal Souva- 
roff. 

XL. 

The letter of the prince to the same marsh 'd 
Was worthy of a Spartan, had the cause 

Been one to which a good heart could be 
partial — 
Defence of freedom, country, or of laws , 

But as it was mere lust of power to o'er-arch all 
With its proud brow, itmerits slight applause, 

Save for its style, which said, all in a trice, 

" You will take Ismail at whatever price." 

XLI. 

' Let there be light ! said God, and there was 
light !" [a sea ! 

" Let there be blood !" says man, and there 's 
The fiat of this spoil'd child of the Night 

'For Day ne'er saw his merits) could decree 
More evil in an hour, than thirty bright [be 

Summers could renovate, though they should 
Lovely as those which ripen'd Eden's fruit; 
For war cuts up not only branch, but root. 

XLII. 

Our friends theTurks, who with loud " Allahs" 
now 

Began to signalise the Russ retreat, 
Were damnably mistaken; i'nw are slow 

In thinking that their «memy is beat, 



(Or beaten, if you insist en grammar, though 

I never think about it in a heat,) 
But here 1 say the Turks were much mistaken 
Who hating hogs,yet wish'd to save their bacon 

XLIII. 

For, on the sixteenth, at full gallop, drew 
In sight two horsemen, who were deem i 
Cossacques 

For some time, till they came in nearer view. 
They had but little baggage at their backs. 

For there were but three shirts between the two; 
But on they rode upon two Ukraine hacks, 

Till, in approaching, were at length descried 

In this plain pair, Suwarrow and his guide. 

XLIV. 

" Great joy to London now!" savs some great 
fool, 

When London had a grand illumination, 
Which to that bottle-conjuror, John Bull, 

Is of all dreams the first hallucination; 
So that the streets of colour'd lamps are full, 

That Sage (said John) surrenders at discre- 
tion [nonsense, 
His purse, his soul, his sense, and even his 
To gratify, like a huge moth, this otie sense. 

XLV. 

T is strange that he should farther " damn his 
eyes," [oath 

For they are damn'd; that once all -famous 
Is to the devil now no farther prize, 

Since John has lately lost the use of both- 
Debt he calls wealth, and taxes Paradise ; 

And Famine,with her gaunt and bony growth, 
Which stare him in the face, he won't examine, 
Or swears that Ceres hath begotten Famine. 

XLV I. 

But to the tale; — great joy unto the camp. 

To Russian, Tartar, English, French, Cos 
sacque, 
O'er whom Suwarrow shone like a gas lamp, 

Presaging a most luminous attack ; 
Or like a wisp along the marsh so damp, 

Which leads b; holders on a boggy walk 
He flitted to and fro a dancing light, 
Which all who saw it follow'd, wrong or righi 

XLVII 

But certes matters took a different face. 

There was enthusiasm and much applause 
The fleet and camp saluted with great grace 

And ull presaged good fortune to their cause 
Within a cannon-shot length of the place 

They drew, constructed ladders, repair'*] 
flaws 
In former works, made new, prepared fascines 
And all kinds of benevolent machines. 



416 



DON JUAN. 



XLVIII. 

T is thus the spirit of a single mind 

Makes that of multitudes take one direction, 

As roll the waters to the breathing wind, 
Or roams the herd beneath the bull's pro- 
tection ; 

(h as a little dog will lead the blind, 

Or a bell-wether form the flock's connection 

By tinkling sounds, when they go forth to 
victual ; 

Such is the sway of your great men o'er little. 

XLIX. 

The whole camp rung with joy ; you would 
have thought 

That they were going to a marriage feast 
(This metaphor, I think holds good as aught, 

Since there is discord after both at least; - 
There was not now a luggage boy but sought 

Danger and spoil with ardour much in- 
creased ; 
And why? because a little — odd — old man, 
Stript to his shirt, was come to lead the van. 

L. 

But so it was; and every preparation 

Was made with all alacrity : the first 
Detachment of three columns took its elation, 

And waited but the signal's voice to burst 
Upon the foe: the second's ordination 

Was also in three columns, with a thirst 
Foi glory gaping o'er a sea of slaughter: 
The third, in columns two, attack'd by water. 

i.i. 
New batteries were erected, and was held 

A general council, in which unanimity, 
That stranger to most councils, here prevail'd, 

As sometimes happens in a great extremity; 
And every difficulty being dispeil'd, 

Glory began to dawn with due sublimity, 
While SouvarofI, determined to obtain it, 
Was teaching his recruits to use the bayonet. *°1 
HI. 

It is an actual fact, that he, commander 
In chief, in proper person deign'd to drill 

The awkward squad, and could afford to 
squander 
His time, a corporal's duty to fulfil; 

lust as you'd break a sucking salamander 
To swallow flame, and never take it ill : 

He show'd them how to mount a ladder (which 

Was not like Jacob's) or to cross a ditch. 

Mil. 

Also he dress'd up, for the nonce, fascines 
Like men with turbans, scimitars, and dirks, 

Vnd made them charge with bayonet these 
machines, 
By way o' lesson agains' actual Turks, 



And when well practised in the*3 mimic scene* 

He judged them proper to assail theworkn, 

At which your wise men sneer'd in phrases 

witty : 
He made no answer; but he took the city. 

LIV. 

Most things were in this posture on the eve 

Of the assault, and all the camp was in 
A stern repose; which you would scarce con- 
ceive; [and thiii 

Yet men resolved to dash through thick 
Are very silent when they once believe 

That all is settled: — there was little din, 
For some were thinking of their home and 

friends, 
And others of themselves and latter ends. 

i,v. 
Suwarrow chiefly was on the alert, [dering; 

Surveying, drilling, ordering, jesting, pon- 
For the man was, we safely may assert, [nig; 

A thing to wonder at beyond most wonder. 
Hero, buffoon, half-demon, and half-dirt, 

Praying, instructing, desolating, plundering; 
Now Mars, now Momus; and when bent tc 

storm 
A fortress, Harlequin in uniform. 

I.VI. 

The day before the assault, while upon drill— 
For this great conqueror play'd the corporal—. 

Some Cossacques, hovering like hawks round 
a hill, 
Had met a party towards the twilight's fall, 

One of whom spoke their tongue — or well or ill, 
'T was much that he was understood at all, 

But whether from his voice, or speech, 01 
manner, [banner 

They found that he had fought beneath theii 

LVII. 

Whereon immediately at his request 

They brought him and his comrades to head- 
quarters ; [guess' 1 
f heir dress were Moslem, but you might hav« 
That these were merely masquerading Tax 
tars, 
And that beneath each Turkish-fashion'd ves< 
Lurk'd Christianity; which sometimes bar 
ters 
Her inward grace for outward show, and makej 
It difficult to shun some strange mistakes. 

LVIII. 

Suwarrow, who was standing in his shirt 
Before a company of Calmucks, drilling, 

Exclaiming, fooling, swearing at the inert. 
And lecturing on the noble art of killing.— 



DON JUAN. 



417 



For deeming human clay but common dirt, 
This great philosopher was thus instilling 
His maxims, which to martial comprehension 
Proved death in battle equal to a pension; — 



Suwarrow, when he saw this company 

Of Cossacques and their prey, turn'd round 
and cast 
Upon them his slow brov and piercing eye: — 
"Whence come ye?' — "From Constanti- 
nople last, 
Captives just now escaped," was the reply. 
" What are ye ?" — " What you see us." 
Briefly pass'd 
This dialogue; for he who answer 'd knew 
To whom he spoke, and made his words but few. 

LX. 

" Your names?" — " Mine's Johnson, and my 
comrade 's Juan : 
The other two are women, and the third 
Is neither man nor woman." The chief threw 
on [heard 

The party a slight glance, then said, " I have 
Your name before, the second is a new one: 
To bring the other three here was absurd: 
But let that pass: — I think I have heard your 

name 
In the Nikolaiew regiment?" — " The same." 

LXI. 

" You served at Widdin?" — " Yes." — " You 
led the attack?" [know " 

" I did." — " What next?"— " I really hardly 
" You were the first i'the breach?" — " I was 
not slack 
At least to follow those who might be so." 
" What follow'd?" — " A shot laid me on my 
back, 
And I became a prisoner to the foe." 
" You shall have vengeance, for the town 
surrounded [woundfd. 

Is twice as strong as that where you were 



" Where will you serve?" — " Where'er you 
please." — " I know 
You like to be the hope of the forlorn, 
And doubtless would be foremost on the foe 
After the hardships you 've already borne. 
And this young fellow — say what can he do? 
He with the beardless chin and garments 
torn?" 
" Why, general, if he hath no greater fault 
In war than love, he had better lead the 
assault.' 

28 



LXIII. 

" He shall if that he dare" Here Juan bow'c 
Low as the lompliment deserved. Su 
warrow 

C mtinued: " Yo ir old regiment's allow'd, 
By special providence, to lead to-morrow, 

Oi it may be to-night, the assault: I hav» 

vow'd [harrow 

To several saints, that shortly plough 01 

Shall pass o'er what was Ismail, and its tusk 

Be unimpeded bv the proudest mosque. 

LXIV. 

" So now, my lads, for glory!" — Here bt 
turn'd 
And drill'd awayinthe mostclassic Russian, 
Until each high, heroic bosom burn'd 

For cash and conquest, as if from a cushion 
A preacher had held forth (who nobly spurn 'd 
All earthly goods save tithes) and bade 
them push on 
To slay the Pagans who resisted, battering 
The armies of the Christian Empress Catt.«. 
rine 



Johnson, who knew by this long colloquy 
Himself a favourite, ventured to address 

Suwarrow, though engaged with accents high 
In his resumed amusement. " I confess 

My debt in being thus allow'd to die 

Among the foremost; but if you 'd express 

Explicitly our several posts, my friend 

And self would know what duty to attend." 

LXVI. 

" Right! I was busy, and forgot. Why, you 
Will join your former regiment, which 
should be 

Now under arms. Ho ! Katskoff, take him to— 
(Here he call'd up a Polish orderly) 

His post, I mean the regiment Nikolaiew : 
The stranger stripling may remain with me ; 

He 's a fine boy. The women may be sent. 

To the other baggage, or to the sick tent." 

LXVI I. 

But here a sort of scene began to ensue : 
The ladies, — who by no means had beer 
bred 

To be disposed of in a way so new. 
Although their harem education led 

Doubtless to that of doctrines the most true, 
Passive obedience, — nowraised up the head 

With flashing eyes and starting tears, ami 
flung Lyoun£ 

Their arms, as hens their wings about 

- E 



418 



DON JUAN. 



Lxvur. 

O'er the promoted couple of brave men, 
Who wore thus honour'd by the greatest 
chief 

That ever peopled hell with heroes slain, 
Or plunged a province or a realm in grief. 

Oh. foolish mortals ! Always taught in vain ! 
Oh, glorious laurel! since for one sole leaf 

Of thine imaginary deathless tree, [sea. 

Of blood and tears must now the unebbing 

LXIX. 

Suwarrow, who had small regard for tears, 
And not much sympathy for blood, survey 'd 

The women with their hair about, their ears 
And natural agonies, with a slight shade 

Of feeling : for however habit sears 

Men's hearts against whole millions, when 
their trade 

Is butchery, sometimes a single sorrow 

Will touch even heroes — and such was Su- 
warrow. 



He said, — and in the kindest Calmuck tone, — 
" Why, Johnson, what the devil do you 
mean 
By bringing women here? They snail be 
shown 
All the attention possible, and seen 
In safety to the waggons, where alone 

In fact they can be safe. You should 
have been 
Aware this kind of baggage never thrives: 
Save wed a year, I bate recruits with wives." 

J.XXT. 

" M-37 i 1 . fi?*us? yc^r excellency," thus re- 
p.ied [of others, 

Our British friend, " these are the v ; ves 
Ana not our own. I am too qualified 

By service with my military brothers 
To braak the rules by bringing one's own 
bride 

Into a camp : I know that nought so bothers 
TLe hearts of the heroic on a charge, 
As leaving a small family at large. 

LXXII 

" But these are but two Turkish ladies, who 
With their attendant aided our escape;, 

And afterwards accompanied us through 
A thousand perils in this dubious 

To me this kind of life is not so new 
To them, poor things it is an awkward 
scrape. 

I therefore, if you wish me to fight freely, 

leq uest that they may both be used geatotif," 



LXXIII. 

Meantime these twa poor girls, with 
rrdng eyes, 

Look'd on as if in doubt if they could trust 
Their own protectors; nor was their surprise 

Less than their grief (and truly not less 
just) 
To see an old man, rather wild than wise 

In aspect, plainly clad, besmear'd with dust, 
Stript to his waistcoat, and that not too clean, 
More fear'd than all the sultans ever seen. 

LXXIY. 

For every thing seem'd resting on his nod, 
As they could read in all eyes. Now to 
them, 

Who were accustom'd, as a sort of god, 
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, 

Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad 
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,) 

With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt 

How power could condescend to do without. 



John Johnson, seeing their extreme dismay, 
Though little versed in feelings oriental, 

Suggested some slight comfort in his way : 
Don Juan, who was much more senti- 
mental, [day, 

Swore they should see him by the dawn of 
Or that the Russian army should repent all : 

And, strange to say, they found some conso- 
lation 

In this — for females like exaggeration. 

LXXVI. 

And then with tears, and sighs, and some 
slight kisses, 

They parted for the present — these to await, 
A '•""'•ding to the artillery's hits or misses, 

What sages call Chance, Providence, 01 
Fate — 
(Uncertainty is one of many blisses, 

A mortgage on Humanity's estate) — 
While their beloved friends began to arm, 
To burn a town which never did them harm 

LXXV1I. 

Suwarrow, — who but saw things in the gross, 
Being much too gross to see them in detail, 

Who calculated life as so much dross, 
And as the wind a widow'd nation's wail, 

And cared as little for his army's loss [ vail) 
(So that their efforts should at length pre. 

Ah wife and friends did for the boils of Job,— • 

What wast t him to hear two women sob* 



DON JUAN. 



419 



lxxviii. 

Nothing. — The work of glory still went on 
In preparations for a cannonade 

As terrible as that of Ilion, 

If Homer had found mortars ready made ; 

But now. instead of slaying Priam's son, 
We only can but talk of escalade, 

Bombs, drums, guns, bastions, batteries, 
bayonets, bullets ; [gullets. 

Hard words, which stick in the soft Muses' 

LXXIX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer! who couldst charm 
All ears, though long ; all ages, though so 
short, 

By merely wielding with poetic arm 

Arms to which men will never more resort, 

Unless gunpowder should be found to harm 
Much less than is the hope of every court, 

Which now is leagued young Freedom to 
annoy ; 

But they will not find Liberty a Troy : — 

LXXX. 

Oh, thou eternal Homer! I have now 
To paint a siege, wherein more men were 
slain, 

With deadlier engines and a speedier blow, 
Than in thy Greek gazette of that campaign ; 

And yet, like all men else, I must allow, 
To vie with thee would be about as vain 

As for a brook to cope with ocean's flood ; 

But still we moderns equal you in blood ; 

LXXXI. 

If not in poetry, at least in fact ; 

And fact is truth, the grand desideratum ! 
Of which, howe'er the Muse describes each 
act, [stratum. 

There should be ne'ertheless a slight sub- 
But now the town is going to be attack'd ; 

Great deeds are doing — how shall I relate. 
'em? 
Souls of immortal generals ! Phoebus watches 
To colour up his rays from your despatches. 

LXXXII. 

Oh, ye great bulletins of Bonaparte! 

Oh, ye less grand long lists of kill'd and 
wounded ! 
Shade of Leonidas, who fought so hearty, 

When my poor Greece was once, as now, 
surrounded ! 
Oh, Caesar's Commentaries! now impart, ye 

Shadows of glory ! (lest I be confounded) 
A portion of your fading twilight hues, 
So beautiful, so fleeting, to the Muse. 



LXXXIII. 

When I call " fading " martial immortality, 
I mean, that every age and every year, 

And almost every day, in sad reality 
Some sucking hero is compell'd to rear, 

Who, when we come to sum up the totality 
Of deeds to human happiness most dear, 

Turns out to be a butcher in great business, 

Afflicting young folks with a sort of dizziness 

I.XXXIV. 

Medals, rank, ribands, lace, embroidery, scarlet, 
Are things immortal to immortal man, 

As purple to the Babylonian harlot: 
An uniform to boys is like a fan 

To women; there is scarce a crimson varlet 
But deems himself the first in Glory's van. 

But Glory's glory; and if you would find 

What that is — ask the pig who sees tbe wind ! 

I.XXXV. 

At least he feels it, and some say he sees, 
Because he runs before it like a pig ; 

Or, if that simple sentence should displease, 
Say, that he scuds before it like a brig, 

A schooner, or — but it is time to ease 

This Canto, ere my Muse perceives fatigue 

The next shall ring a peal to shake all people, 

Like a bob-major from a village steeple. 

LXXLVI. 

Hark ! through the silence of the cold, dull 
night, 

The hum of armies gathering rank on rank! 
Lo ! dusky masses steal in dubious sight 

Along the leaguer'd wall and bristling bank 
Of the arm'd river, while with straggling light 

The stars peep through the vapours dim and 
dank, [the smoke 

Which curl in curious wreaths: — how soon 
Of Hell shall pall them in a deeper cloak. 

LXXXVII. 

Here pause we for the present — as eveu then 
That awful pause, dividing life from deatli, 

Struck for an instant on the hearts of men, 
Thousands of whom were drawing their last 
breath ! 

A moment — -and all will be life again! 

The march! the charge! the shouts of either 
faith ! 

Hurra! and Allah ! and — -one moment more— 

The death-cry drowning in the battle's roar. 



2e2 



420 



DON JUAN. 



Bon 3Juan. 



CANT* THE EIGHTH 



Of biood and thunder' and oh blood and 
wounds! [deem, 

These are but vulgar oaths, as you may 
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds : 

And so they are ; yet this is Glory's dream 
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds 

At present such things, since they are her 
theme, 
So be they her insurers! Call them Mars, 
Bellona, what you will — they mean but wars. 

n. 

All was prepared — the fire, the sword, the men 
To wield them in their terrible array. 

The army, like a lion from his den, 

Mareh'd forth with nerve and sinews bent 
to slay, — 

A human Hydra, issuing from its fen 

To breathe destruction on its winding way, 

Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain, 

Immediately in others grew again. 

in. 
History can only take things in the gross ; 

But could we know them in detail, perchance 
(n balancing the profit and the loss, 

War's merit it by no means might enhance, 
To waste so much gold for a little dross, 

Asbatli been done, mere conquest to advance. 
The drying up a single tear has more 
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore. 

IV. 

And why? because it brings self-approbation; 

Whereas the other, after all its glare, 
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation, 

Which (it may be) has not much left to spare, 
A higher title, or a loftier station, 

Though they may make Corruption gape or 
stare, 
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles, 
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles. 

v. 
And such they are, — and such they will be 
found: 
Not so Leonidas and Washington, 
Whose every battle-field is holy ground, 
Which breathes of nations saved, not world* 



How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound! 
While the mere victor's may appal or stun 
The servile and the vain, such names will be 
A watchward till the future shall be free. 



The night was dark, and the thick mist allow VI 
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame, 

Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud, 
And in the Danube's waters shone the 
same — 

A mirror'd hell ! the volleying roar, and loud 
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame 

The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven"? 
flashes [ashe* ! 

Spare, or smite rarely — man's make millions 



The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd 
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises, 

When up the bristling Moslem rose at last, 
Answering the Christian thunders with like 
voices : [braced, 

Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream em 

Which rock'd as 'twere beneath the mighty 

noises ; [when 

While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, 

The restless Titan hiccups in his den. 

VIII. 

And one enormous shout of " Allah!" rose 
In the same moment, loud as even the roar 

Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes 
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore 

Resounded "Allah!" and the clouds which 
close 
With thickening canopy the conflict o'er, 

Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through 

All sounds it pierceth " Allah! Allah! Hu!" I°* 

IX. 

The columns were in movement one and all, 
But of the portion which attack'd by wau-r, 

Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall. 
Though led by Arseniew, that great son o> 
slaughter, 

As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball. 
" Carnage " (so Wordsworth tells you) " is 
God's daughter:" 

If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and 

Just now behaved as in the Holy Land. 

x. 

The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee; 

Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between 
His cap and head, which proves the head to oe 

Aristocratic as was ever seen 



DON JUAN. 



421 



Because it then received no injury 

Mo* than the cap ; in fact, the ball oould 
.nean 
No harm unto a right legitimate head. 
" Ashes to ashes" — why not lead to lead? 

XI. 

Also the General Markow, Brigadier, 
Insisting on removal of the prince 

Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, — 
All common fellows, who might writhe and 
wince, 

And shriek for water into a deaf ear, — 
The General Markow, who could thus evince 

His sympathy for rank, by the same token, 

To teach him greater, had his own leg broken. 

XII. 

Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic, 
And thirty thousand muskets filing their pills 

Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic. 
Mortality ! thou hast thy monthly bills ; 

Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet 

tick, [ills 

Like the death-watch, within our ears the 

Past, present, and to come ; — but all may yield 

To the true portrait of one battle-field. 

XIII. 

There the still varying pangs, which multiply 
Until their very number makes men hard 

By the infinities of agony, 

Which meet the gaze, whate'er it may re- 
gard— 

The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye 
Turn'd back within its socket, — these reward 

Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest 

May win perhaps a riband at the breast ! 

XIV. 

Vet I love glory; — glory's a great thing: — 

Think what it is to be in your old age 
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king: 

A moderate pension shakes full many a sage, 
And heroes are but made for bards to sing, 

Which is still better; thus in verse towage 
Tour wars eternally, besides enjoying 

Half-pay for life, make mankind worth de 
stroying. 

xv. 
The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on 

To take a battery on the right; the others, 
Who landed lower down, their landing done, 

Had set to work as briskly as their brothers: 
Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one, 

Cheerful as children climb the breasts of 
mothers, 
O'-jr the entrenchment and the palisade, 
Quite orderly, as if upon parade. 



And this was admirable ; for so hot 

The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded 

Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot 

And shells or hells, it could not more have 
goaded. 

Of officers a third fell on the spot, 

A thing which victory by no means boded 

To gentlemen engaged in the assault' 

Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, ar° at 
fault. 



But here I leave the general concern, 
To track our hero on his path of fame : 

He must his laurels separately earn ; 

For fifty thousand heroes, name by name, 

Though all deserving equally to turn 
A couplet, or an elegy to claim, 

Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory, 

And what is worse still, a much longer story . 



And therefore we must give the greater number 
To the Gazette — which doubtless fairly dealt 

By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber 
In ditches, fields, or where'er thev felt 

Their clay for the last time their souls encum- 
ber ;— [spelt 
Thrice happy he whose name has been well 

In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss 

Was printed Grove, although his name was 
Grose. 103 



Juan and Johnson joined a certain corps, 
And fought away with might and main, no» 
knowing 
The way which they had never trod before, 
And still less guessing where they might be 
going; [o'er, 

But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling 
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, 
glowing, 
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win, 
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin 

xx. 
Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire 
Of dead and dying thousands, — sometimes 
gaining [nigh^i 

A yard or two of ground, which brought their 
To some odd angle for which all wert 
straining; 
At other times, repulsed by the close fire. 

Which reallypour'd as if all hell were rainim 
Instead of heaven, they stnmbied backwards o'a 
A wounded comrade, sprawling iu his gore. 



422 



DON JUAN. 



Thouga 'twas Don Juan's first of fields, and 
though 

The nightly muster and the silent march 
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow 

So much as under a triumphal arch, 
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw 

A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as 
starch, [day ;— 

Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for 
Yet lor all this he did not run away. 



Indeed he could not. But what if he had? 

There have been and are heroes who begun 
With something not much better, or as bad : 

Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to 
run 
For the first and last time ; for, like a pad, 

Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one 
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks, 
And fight like fiends for pay or politics. 

XXIII. 

He was what Erin calls, in her snolime 
OJd Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic; — 

(The antiquarians 104 who can settle time, 
Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or 
Runic, [same clime 

Swear that Pat's language sprung from the 
With Hannibal, and wears the Tynan tunic 

Of Dido's alphabet ; and this is rational 

\.s any other notion, and not national) ; — 

XXIV. 

But Juan was quite " a broth of a boy," 
A thing of impulse and a child of song ; 

Now swimming in the sentiment of joy, 
Or the sensation (it that phrase seem wrong), 

And afterward, if he must needs destroy, 
In such good company as always throng 

To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure, 

No less delighted to employ his leisure ; 



But always without malice : if he warr'd 
Or loved, it was with what we call " the 
best icard, 

Intentions," which form all mankind's trump 
To be produced when brought up to the test. 

The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer — ward 
Off each attack, when people are in quest 

Of their designs, by saying they meant well; 

T is pitv " that such meaning should pave 
hell. '»<» 



XXVI. 

I almost lately have begun to doubt 

Whetherhell'spavement — if it be so paved— • 

Must not have latterly been quite worn out, 
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved, 

But by the mass who go below without 

Those ancient good intentions, which once 
shaved [hell, 

And smooth d the brimstone of that street o.' 

Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall 
Mall. 

XX VII 

Juan, by some strange change, which oft divides 
Warrior from warrior in their grim career, 

Like chastest wives from constant husbands' 
sides 
Just at the close of the first bridal year. 

By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides, 
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here, 

When, after a good deal of heavy firing, 

He found himself alone, and friends retiring. 

XXVIII 

1 don't know how the thing occurr'd — it might 
Be that the greater part were kill'd or 
wounded, 

And that the rest had faced unto the right 
About ; a circumstance which has con 
founded 

Caesar himself, who, in the very sight 

Of his whole army, which so much abounded 

In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield, 

And rally back his Romans to the field. 

XXIX. 

Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was 
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought 

He knew not why, arriving at this pass, 
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought 

For a much longer time ; then, like an ass — 
(Start not, kind reader, since great Homer 
thought 

This simile enough for Ajax, Juan 

Perhaps may find it better than a new one) ; — 

XXX. 

Then, like an ass, he went upon his way, 
And, what was stranger, never look'd be- 
hind ; 

But seeing, flashing forward, like the day 
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind 

Those who dislike to look upon a fray, 
He stumbled on, to try if he could find 

A path, to add his own slight arm and forces 

To corps, the greater part of which were 
corses. 



DON JUAN, 



423 



XXXI. 

Perceiving then no more the commandant 
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which 
had 

Unite disappear'd — the gods know how ! (Ican't 
Account for every thing which may look 
bad 

In history ; but we at least may grant 
It was not marvellous that a mere lad, 

In search of glory, should look on before, 

Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps :j — 

XXXII. 

Perceiving nor commander nor commanded, 
And left at large, like a young heir, to make 

His way to — where he knew not — single 
handed ; 
As travellers follow over bog and brake 

An " ignis fatuus ;" or as sailors stranded 
U»ito the nearest hut themselves betake ; 

5>o Juan, following honour and his nose, 

Rush'd where the thickest fire announced 
most foes. 

XXXIII. 

He Knew not where he was, nor greatly cared, 
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins 

Fill'd as with lightning — for his spirit shared 
The hour, as is the case with lively brains ; 

And where the hottest fire was seen and heard, 

And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest 

strains, [shaken 

He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly 

By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon I 106 

xxxiv. 

And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he 
Fell in with what was late the second 
column, 

TTnder the orders of the General Lascy, 
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume 

Into an elegant extract (much less massy) 
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn 

Air 'midsv. the rest, who kept their valiant 
faces 

And levell'd weapons still against the glacis. 

XXXV. 

Just at this crisis up came Johnson too. 

Who had " retreated," as the phrase is 
when 

Men run away much rather than go through 
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den; 

But Johnson was a clever fellow, who 

Knew when and how " to cut and come 
again," 

And never ran away, except when running 

W*is nothing but a valorous kind of cunning. 



XXXTI. 

And so, when all his corps were dead or dying 
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose 

More virgin valour never dreamt of flying, 
From ignorance of danger, which indues 

Its votaries, like innocence relying 

On its own strength, with careless nerve* 
and thews, — 

Johnson retired a little, just to rally 

Those who catch cold in "shadows of Death's 
valley." 

XXXVII. 

And there, a little shelter'd from the shot, 
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet, 

Rampart, wall, casement, house — lor there 
was not 
In this extensive city, sore beset 

By Christian soldiery, a single spot [yet. — 
Which did not combat like the devil, as 

He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd 

By the resistance of the chase they batter'd. 



And these he call'd on; and, what's strange, 
they came 

Unto his call, unlike " the spirits from 
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim, 

Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave 
their home. 
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame 

At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb, 
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds 
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads. 



By Jove ! he was a noble fellow, Johnson, 
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles, 

Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun 

soon L kill his 

We shall not see his likeness: he could 

Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon 
Her steady breath (which some months the 
same still is) : 

Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle 

And could be very busy without bustle; 



And therefore, when he ran away, he did so 
Upon reflection, knowing that behind 

He would find others who would fain be rid so 
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind 

Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lidssc 
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind, 

But when they light upon immediate death. 

Retire a little, merely to take breath. 



424 



DON JUAN. 



But Johnson only ran off, to return 
With many other warriors, as we said, 

Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn, 
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread. 

To Jack, ho we or, this gave but slight con- 
cern : 
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead) 

Acted upon the living as on wire, 

And led them back into the heaviest fire. 

XLII. 

Egad ! they found the second time what they 
The first time thought quite terrible enough 

To fly from, malgre all which people say 
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff 

Which fills a regiment (besides their pay, _ 
That daily shilling which makes warriors 
tough) — [welcome, 

They found on their return the self-same 

Which made some think, and others know a 
hell come. 

XUII. 

They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail, 
Grass before scythes, or corn below the 
sickle, 

Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail, 
As any other boon for which men stickle. 

The Turkish batteries thrash' d them like a flail, 
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle 

Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd 

Upon the head, before their guns werecock'd. 

XLIV. 

The Turks behind the traverses and flanks 

Of the next bastion, fired away like devils, 

And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole 

ranks: [levels 

However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who 

Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving 

pranks, 

So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels, 

That Johnson and some few who had not 

scamper'd, 
[{ vach'd the interior talus 1 **? of the rampart. 

XLV. 

First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen 
Oame mounting quickly up, for it was now 

All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin, 
Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's 
below, [chosen, 

So that you scare* could say who best had 
The gentlemen that were the first to show 

Their martial faces on the parapet, 

Or those who th>uyht it brave to wait as yet. 



XLVI. 

But those who scaled, found out that theii 
advance 

Was favour'd by an accident or blunder : 
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance 

Had pallisado'd in a way you 'd wonder 
To see in forts of Netherlands or France — 

(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock 
under) — 
Right in the middle of the parapet 
Just named, these palisades were primly set 

XLV II. 

So that on either side some nine or ten 

Paces were left, whereon you could contrive 

To march ; a great convenience to our men, 
At least to all those who were left alive, 

Who thus could form a line and fight again ; 
And that which farther aided them to strive 

Was, that they could kick down the palisades, 

Which scarcely rose much higher than grass 
blades. 

XLVI1I. 

Among the first, — I will not say the first, 
For such precedence upon such occasions 

Will oftentimes make deadly qnarrels burst 
Out between friends as well as allied nations: 

The Briton must be bold who really durst 
Put to such trial John Bull's partial 
patience, 

As say that Wellington at Waterloo 

Was beaten, — though the Prussians say »> 
too; — 

XLIX. 

And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau, 
And God knows who besides in " au' 
and " ow," 

Had not come up in time to cast an awe 108 
Into the hearts of those who fought till now 

As tigers combat with an empty craw, 

The Duke of Wellington had ceased toshow 

His orders, also to receive his pensions : 

Which are the heaviest that our history 
mentions. 



But never mind ; — " God save the king !" and 
kings ! 

For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer — 
I think I hear a little bird, who sings 

The people by and by will be the stronger - 
The veriest jade will wince whose harness 
wrings 

So much into the raw as quite to wrong hei 
Beyond the rules of posting, — and the mob 
At last fall sick of imitating Job. 



DON JUAN. 



425 



LI. 



At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then, 
Like David, tiings smooth pebbles 'gainst a 
giant; 
At last it takes to weapons such as men 
Snatch when despair makes human hearts 
less pliant. 
I'hen comes " the tug of war;" — 'twill come 
again, [on 't," 

1 lather doubt; and I would fain say " fie 
if I had not perceived that revolution 
4 lone can save the earth from hell's pollution 

L1I. 
But to continue : — I say not tlie first, 

But of the first, our little friend Don Juan 
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed 
Amidst such scenes — though this was quite 
a new one [thirst 

To him, and I should hope to most. The 
Of glory, which so pierces through and 
through one, 
Pervaded him. — although a generous creature, 
As warm in heart as feminine in feature. 

LIII. 
And here he was — who upon woman's breast, 
Even from a child, felt like a child; 
howe'er 
The man in all the rest might be confest, 

To him it was Elysium to bo there ; [test 

A ad he could even withstand that awkward 

Which Rousseau points out to the dubious 

fair, [arms;" 

' Observe your lover when he leaves your 

Out Juan never left them, while they had 

charms, 

J.IV. 

LWess compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind, 
Or near relations, who are much the same. 

But, here he was ! — where each tie that can 
bind 
Humanity must yield to steel and flarne: 

And he whose very body was all mind, [tame 
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which 

The loftiest, hurried by the time and place, 

Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race. 

LV. 

So was his blood stirr'd while he found re 
sistance, 

As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate, 
Or double post and rail, where the existence 

Of Britain's youth depends upon their 
weight, 
the lightest being the safest : at a distance 

He hated cruelty, as all men hate 
JJlood, until heated — and even then his own 
A- wnes would curdle o'er some heavy groan. 



The General Lascy, who had been hard 
press'd, 

Seeing arrive an aid so opportune 
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast, 

\Vho came as if just dropp'd down from the 
moon, 
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd 

His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon, 
Not reckoning him to be a " base iJezctiian." 
(As Pistol calls it) but a young Livonian- 



Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew 
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and 

In answer made an inclination to 

The general who held him in command ; 

For seeing one with ribands, black and blue, 
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand, 

Addressing him in tones which seem'd to 
thank, 

He recognised an officer of rank. 



Short speeches pass between two men who 
speak 

No common language : and besides, in time 
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek 

Kings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime 
Is perpetrated ere a word can break 

Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime 
In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, 

yell, prayer, 
Theie cannot be much conversation there. 



And therefore all we have related in « 
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute; 

But in the same small minute, every sin 
Contrived to get itself comprised within it. 

The very cannon, deafened by the din, [linnet, 
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear ? 

As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise 

Of human nature's agonising voice ! 



The town was enter d. Oh eternity! — 
" God made the country, and man mado 
he town," 

So Cowper says — and I begin to be i 

Of his opinion, when I see cast down ' 

Rome. Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nine/eh, 
All walls men know, and many never known; 

And pondering on the present "and the past, 

To deem the woods shall be our home at last-— 



£26 



DON JUAN. 



Of all mei' saving Sylla the man-slayer, 
Who passes for in life and death most lucky. 

Of the great names which in our faces stare, 
The General Boon, back-woodsman of 
Kentucky, 

Was happiest among mortals any where ; 
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he 

Enjov'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days 

Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze. 



Ciime came not near him — she is not the 
child [foi 

Of solitude ; Health shrank not from him — 
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild, [more 

Where if men seek her not, and death be 
Their choice than life, forgive them, as be 
gtiiled 

By habit to what their own hearts abhor — 
In cities caged. The present case in point I 
Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety ; 



And what's still stranger, left behind a name 
For which men vainly decimate the throng, 

Not only famous, but of that good fame, 
Without which glory's but a tavern song — 

Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame, 

Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with 
wrong ; 

An active hermit, even in age the child 

Of Nature, or the Man of Ross run wild. 

LXIV. 

T is true he shrank from men even of his 
I nation, [trees, — 

When they built up unto his darling 

He moved some hundred miles off, for a 

station [ease ; 

Where there were fewer houses and more 
The inconvenience of civilisation [please ; 

Is, that you neither can be pleased nor 
But where he met the individual man, 
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can. 



He was not all alone : around him grew 
A sylvan tribe of children of the cha.-e. 

Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new, 
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace 

On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view 
A frown on Nature's or on human face ; — 

The free-born orest found and kept them free, 

And fresh as is a torrent or a tree 



And tall, and strong, and swift of ft ot wen 
they, 
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions. 
Because their thoughts had never been the prey 
Of care or gain; the green woods were 
their portions ; 
No sinking spirits told them they grew grey, 
No fashion made them apes of her distor 
tions ; 
Simple they were, not savage : and their rifles, 
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles, 

LXVII. 

Motion was in their days, rest in their slum 
bers, [toil ; 

And cheerfulness the handmaid of their 
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers; 

Corruption could not make their hearts her 

soil; [cumbers; 

Thelust which stings, the splendour which en- 

With the free foresters divide no sp^il ; 
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes 
Of this unsighing people of the woods. 



So much for Nature : — by way of variety, 
Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation ! 

And the sweet consequence of large society, 
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation, 

The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety, 
The millions slain by soldiers for their 
ration, [score, 

The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at three 

With Ismail's storm to soften it the more. 

LXIX. 

The town was enter'd : first one column made 
Its sanguinary way good — then another; 

The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade 
ClashM 'gainst She scimitar, and babe and 
mother, [braid: — 

With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to up- 
Still closer sulphury clouds began to 
smother [foot 

The breath of morn and man, where foot by 

The madden'd Turks their city still dispute." 

LXX. 

Koutousow, he who afterward beat back [snow* 
(With some assistance from the frost anc 

Napoleon on his bold and bloody track, 
Ithappen'dwas himself beat back just now: 

He was a jolly fellow, and could crack 
His jest alike in face of friend or foe, [stake; 

Though life, and death, and victory were «4 

But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased totak* 



DON JUAN. 



427 



LXXI. 

F< * having thrown himself into a rfitch, 
follow J in haste by various grenadiers, 

Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich, 
He climb'd to where the parapet appears ; 

But there his project reach'd its utmost, pitch 
('MongSt other deaths the General Rtbau- 
pierre's 

Was much regretted), for the Moslem men 

Threw them all down into the ditch again. 

LXXII. 

And had it not been for some stray troops 
landing [stream 

They knew not where, being carried by the 
To some spot, where they lost their under- 
standing, 

And wander' d up and down as in a dream, 
Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding, 

That which a portal to their eyes did seem, — 
The great and gay Koutousow might have iain 
Where three parts of his column yet remain. 

LXXIII. 

And scrambling round the rampart, these same 
troops, 

After the taking of the " Cavalier ," 10 9 
JustasKoutousow'smost " forlorn " of" hopes" 

Took, like chameleons, some siight tinge of 
fear, 
Opeu'd the gate call'd "Kilia," to the groups 

Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near, 
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud, 
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood. 

LXXIV. 

The Kozaoks, or, if so you please, Cos- 
sacques — [graphy, 

(I don't much pique myself upon ortho- 
So that I do not grossly err in facts, 

Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) — 
Having been used to serve on horses' backs. 

And no great dilettanti in topography 
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases 
Their chiefs to order, — were all cut to pieces. 

LXXV. 

Their column, though the Turkish batteries 
thunder'd [rampart, 

Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the 
And naturally thought they could have plun- 
der 'd 
The city, without being farther hamper'd: 
But as it happens to brave men , they blunder'd — 
The Turks at first pretended to have scam- 
per 'd, 
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners, 
From whence they sallied on those Christian 
scorners. 



LXXVI. 

Then being taken by the tail — a taking 
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers — the.»e 

Oossacques were all cutoff as day was breaking, 
Anil found their lives were let at a short 
lease — - 

But perish'd without shivering or shaking, 
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses, 

O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi 

March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki. — 

LXXV1I. 

This valiant man kill'd all the Turk's he met, 
But could not eat them, being in his turn 

Slain by some Mussulmans. \vh would not yet. 
Without resistance, see their city burn. 

The walls were won, but 'twas an even bet 
Which of the armies would have cause to 
mourn : 

T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch, 

For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch. 

I.XXVIII. 

Another column also suffer 'd much : — 

And here we may remark with the historian, 

You should but give few cartridges to such 
Troops as are meant to march with greatest 
glory on : 

"When matters must be carried by the touch 
Of the bright bayonet, and thev all should 
hurry on, 

They sometimes, with ahankering for existence. 

Keep merely firing at a foolish distance. 

LXXIX. 

A junction of the General Meknop's men 
(Without the General, who had fallen somt 
time 

Before, being badly seconded just then) 
Was made at length with those who dared 
to climb 

The death disgorging rampart once again ; 
And though theTurk's resistance was sublime 

They took the bastion, which the Seraskier 

Defended at a price extremely dear. 

LXXX. 

Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers 
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quartet 

A word which little suits with Seraskiers, 
Or at least suited not this valiant Taitar. 

He died, deserving well his country's tears, 
A savage sort of military martyr. 

An English naval officer, who wish'd 

To make him prisoner, was <dso dish'd: 



428 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXI. 

For all tne answer to his proposition 

Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead ; 

On which the rest, without more intermission, 
Began to lay about with steel and lead — 

The pious metals most in requisition 
On such occasions: not a single head 

Was spared ; — three thousand Moslemsperish'd 
here. 

And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier. 

LXXXII. 

The city 's taken —only part by part — 

And Death is drunk with gore : there 's not 
a street 

Where fights not to the last some desperate heart, 
For those for whom itsoon shall cease to beat. 

Here War forgot his own destructive art 
In more destroying Nature; and the heat 

Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime, 

Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime. 

LXXXIII. 

A Russian officer, in martial tread 
Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel 

Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head 

Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed 

to feel; [bled, 

[n vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and 
And howl' d for help as wolves do for a meal — 

The teeth still kept their gratifying hold, 

As do the subtle snakes described of old. 

LXXXIV. 

A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot 
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit 

The very tendon which is most acute — 
(That'which some ancient Muse or modern 
wit 

Named after thee, Achilles) and quite through *t 
He made the teeth meet, nor relinqui'sh'd it 

Even with his life — for (but they lie) 'tis said 

To the live leg still clung the sever'd head. 

LXXXV. 

However this may be, 't is pretty sure 
The Russian officer for life was lamed. 

For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer, 
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd : 

The regimental surgeon could not cure 

His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed 

More than the head of the inveterate foe, 

Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go. 

LXXXVI. 

But then the fact 's a fact — and 'tis the part 
Of a true poet to escape from fiction 

Whene'er he can ; for there is little art 

In leaving verse more free from the restriction 



Of truth than prose, unless to suit the man 

For what is sometimes called poetic diction 
And that outrageous appetite for lies 
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies. 

LXXXVII 

The city's taken, but not render'd! — No ! 

There's not a Moslem that hath yieldec 
sword : 
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow 

Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor wo r d 
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe: 

In vain the yell of victory is roar'd 
By the advancing Muscovite — the groan 
Of the last foe is echoed by his own. 

LXXXVI II. 

The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves. 

And human lives are lavish'd every where. 
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves 

When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air 
And groans ; and thus the peopled city grieves 

Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare, 
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters, 
As oaks blown down with all their thousand 



LXXXIX. 

It is an awful topic — but 't is not 
My cue for any time to be terrific . 

For checker'd as is seen our human lot 

With good, and bad, and worse, alike proline 

Of melancholy merriment, to quote 

Too much of one sort would be soporific ; — 

Without, or with, offence to friends or foes, 

I sketch your world exactly as it goes. 



And one good action in the midst of crimes 
Is " quite refreshing," in the affected phrase 

Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times, 

With all their pretty milk-and-water ways, 

And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes 
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze 

Of conquest and its consequences, which 

Make epic poesy so rare and rich. 



Upon a taken bastion, where there lay 

Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warn; 
group 

Of murder" d women, who had found theirway 
To this vain refuge, mane the good heart droop 

And shudder ; — while, as beautiful as May, 
A female child of ten years tried to stoop 

And hide her little palpitating breast 

Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest 



DON JUAN 



429 



Two villanous Cossacques pursued the child 
With flashing eyes and weapons: inatch'd 
with them, 

The rudest brute that roams Siberia s wild 
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, — 

The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild : 
And whom for this at last must we condemn? 

Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ 

All arts to teach their subjects to destrov ? 

xcm. 
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head, 
Whence her fair hair rose twining with 
affright, 
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead : 
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad 
sight, 
I shall not say exactly what he said, 

Because it might not solace " ears polite;" 
But what he did, was to lay on their backs, 
The readiest way of reasoning with Cos- 
sacques. 

XCIV. 

One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's 
shoulder, [seek, 

And drove them with their brutal yells to 
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder 

The wounds they richly merited, and 

shriek [colder 

Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing 

As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek, 
D !>n Juan raised his little captive from 
The heap a moment more had made her tomb. 

xcv. 

And she was chill as they, and on her face 
A slender streak of blood announced how 
near 

Her fate had been to that of all her race ; 
For the same blow which laid her niothei 
here [trace, 

Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson 
As the last link with all she had held dear • 

But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes, 

And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise. 

XCVI. 

Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'a 
Upon each other, with dilated glance, 

*n Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, 

mix'd [chance 

With joy to save, and dread of some mis- 

Un*.o his protegee; while hers, transfixed 
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance, 

A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face, 

Like to a lighted alabaster vase; — 



xevn. 

Up came John Johnson (I will not say 
" Jack" [plac-e 

For that were vulgar, cold, and common- 
On great occasions, such as an attack 

On cities, as hath been the present case) : 
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back. 

Exclaiming:— " Juan! Juan! On, boy ! 
brace 
Yonr arm, and I '11 bet Moscow to a dollar. 
That you and I will win St. George's cullar.ll* 

XCVIU. 

• The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head, 

But the stone bastion still remains, where » 

The old Pacha sits among some hundred:* 

dead, [dm 

Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the 

Of our artillery and his own : 'tis said 

Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin. 
Lie round the battery ; but still it batters, 
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters. 

XCIX. 

" Then up with me!" — But Juan answer'd, 
" Look 
Upon this child — I saved her — must not 
leave [nook 

Her life to chance ; but point me out some 
Of safety, where she less may shrink and 
grieve, [took 

And I am with you." — Whereon Johnson 
A glance around — and shrugg'd, and twitch a 
his sleeve " You' re right ; 

And black silk neckcloth — and replied, 
Poor thing! what's to be done? I 'm puz 
zled quite." 



Said Juan — " Whatsoever is to be [cure 

Done, I 11 not quit her till she seems se- 

Of present life a good deal more than we." — 
Quoth Johnson — " Neitlier will I quite 
ensure ; 

But at the least you may die gloriously." — 
Juan replied — " At least I will endure 

Whate'er is to be borne—/ \t not resign 

This child, who is pareimcss, and therefoi* 
mine." 

CJ. 

Johnson laid — " Juan, we've no tinif. to lose; 

The child 's a pretty child — a very prettv — 
I never saw such eyes — but hark! noweh<>os« 

Between your fame and feelings, pride u.'id 
pity;— 



430 



DON JUAN. 



Hark ! how the roar increases ! — no excuse 
Will serve when there is plunder in a 
city ; — 
I should be loath to march without you, but, 
By God! we'll be too late for the first cut." 

en. 
But Juan was immoveable ; until 

Johnson, who really loved him in his way, 

Pick'd out amongst his followers with some 

skill [prey ; 

Such as he thought the least given up to 
And swearing if the infant came to ill [day ; 

That they should all be shot on the next 
But if she were dehver'd safe and sound, 
They should at least have fifty rubles round, 



And all allowances besides of plunder, [then 
In fair proportion with their comrades ; — 

Juan consented to march on through thunder, 
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks ol 
men ; 

And yet the rest rush'd eagerly — no wonder 
For they were heated by the hope of gain, 

A thing which happens every where each day — 

No hero trusteth wholly to half pay. 



Are they — now furious as the sweeping ware, 
Now moved with pity: even as sometime! 
nods 
The rugged tree unto the summer wind, 
Compassion breathes along the savage minu 

cvn. 
But he would not be taken, and replied 

To all the propositions of surrender 
By mowing Christians down on every side, 
As obstinate as Swedish Charles at 
Bender. HI 
His five brave boys no less the foe defied ; 
Whereon the Russian pathos grew less 
tender, 
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience, 
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations. 

CVIII. 

And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who 
Expended all their Eastern phraseology 

In begging him, for God's sake, just to show 
So much less fight as might form an apo- 

] °gy 

For them in saving such a desperate foe — ■ 
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology 
When they dispute with sceptics ; and with 
curses [nurses. 

Struck at his friends, as babies beat their 



And such is victory, and such is man ! [God 
At least nine-tenths of what we call so ; — 

May have another name for half we scan 
As human beings, or his ways are odd. 

But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan — 
Or " sultan." as the author (to whose nod 

In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call 

This chieftain — somehow would not yield at 
all: 



Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, 
both 

Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell, 
The first with sighs, the second with an oath, 

Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell, 
And all around were grown exceeding wroth 

At such a pertinacious infidel, 
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain, 
Which they resisted like a sandy plain 



But flank'd by five brave sons (such is poly- 
gamy, [where none 

That she spawns warriors by the score, 
Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy), 

He never would believe the city won [Ami 
While courage clung but to a single twig. — 

Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son? 
Neither — but a good, plain, old, temperate 

man, 
Who fought with his fi"° children in the van. 



To lake him was the point. — The truly brave, 

When they behold the brave oppress'd 

with odds, [save ; — 

Are touch'd with a desire to shield and 
A. mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods 



That drinks and still is dry. At last they 
perish' d — 
His second son was levell'd by a shot ; 
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most 
cherish'd 
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot ; 
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother noiv 
rish'd, 
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not, 
Because deform'd, yet died all game and 

bottom, 
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him. 

CXI. 

The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar, 
As great a scorner of the Nazarene 

As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr. 
Who only saw the black-e\ed girls in green, 



DON JUAN. 



431 



Who make the beds of those who won't take 

quarter 
On earth, in Paradise ; and when once seen, 
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures, 
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of fea 

tures. 

cxn. 

And what they pleased to do with the young 
khan 
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess ; 
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man 
To tough old heroes, and can do no less ; 
And that 's the cause no doubt why, if we 
scan 
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness, 
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body, 
You '11 find ten thousand handsome coxcombs 
bloody. 

cxin. 
Your houris also have a natural pleasure 

In lopping off your lately married men, 
Bifore the bridal hours have danced their 
measure, 

And the sad, second moon grows dim again, 
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure 

To wash him back a bachelor now and then. 
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes 
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits. 

CXIV. 

Thus the young khan, with houris in his 
sight, [brides, 

Thought not upon the charms of fouryoung 
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night. 

In short, howe'er our better faith derides, 
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems 
fight, [besides, — 

As though there were one heaven and none 
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven 
And hell, there must at least be six or seven. 

cxv. 
So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes, 

That when the very lance was in his heart, 
He shouted " Allah !" and saw Paradise 

With all its veil of mystery drawn apart, 
And bright eternity without disguise 

On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart: — 
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried 
In one voluptuous blaze, — and then he died: 

CXV I. 

But with a heavenly rapture on his face, 
The good old khan, who long had ceased 
to see 

Houris, or aught except his florid race 

Who grew like cedars round him gloriously — 



When he beheld his latest hero grace 

The "earth, whichhe became like afell'dtree, 
Paused for a moment from the light, and casl 
A glance on that slain son, his first and la.st. 

cxvu. 
The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point, 
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede 
Quarter, in case he bade them not "aroynt!' 
As he before had done. He did not heed 
Their pause nor signs : his heart was out oi 
joint, 
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed, 
As he look'd down upon his children gone, 
And felt — though done with life — he was 
alone. 

CXVTTI. 

But 'twas a transient tremor : — with a spring 
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung. 
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing 
Against the light wherein she dies : he 
clung 
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring, 
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his 
young ; 
And throwing back a dim look on his sons, 
In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at 
once. 

cxix. 
'Tis strange enough — the rough, tough soldiers, 
who 
Spared neither sex nor age in their career 
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced 
through, 
And lay before them with his children near, 
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew, 

Were melted for a moment : though no tear 
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, ail red with 

strife, 
They honour' d such determined scorn of life. 

cxx. 
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire, 

Where the chief pacha calmly held his post. 
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire, 

.And baffled the assaults of all their host : 
At length he condescended to inquire 

I*' yet the city's rest were won or lost ; 
And being told the latter, sent a bey 
To answer Ribas' summons to give way. 

CXXI. 

In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang 
froid, 
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking 
Tobacco on a little carpet ; — Troy 

Saw nothing like the scene around ; — yet 
looking 



432 



DON JUAN. 



With martial stoicism, nought seemd to annoy 

His stern philosophy; but gently stroking 
His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales, 
As if he had three lives, as well as tails. 

cxxn. 
The town was taken — whether he might yield 

Himself or bastion, little matter d now : 
His stubborn valour was no future shield. 

Ismail's no more! The crescent's silver bow 
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the 
field, 

But red with no redeeming gore: the glow 
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water, 
Was imaged back in blood,the sea of slaughter. 

CXXIII. 

All that the mind would shrink from of excesses ; 

All that the body perpetrates of bad ; 
All that we read,hear,d'ream,of man's distresses; 

All that the devil would do if run stark mad ; 
All that defies the worst which pen expresses; 

All by which hell is peopled, or as sad 
As hell— mere mortals who their power abuse — 
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose. 

CXXIV. 

If here and there some transient trait of pity 

Was shown, and some more noble heart 
broke through 
Its bloody bond, and saved, perhaps, somepretty 

Child, or an aged, helpless man or two— 
What's this in one annihilated city, [grew? 

Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties 
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris! 
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is. 

cxxv. 
Think how the joys of reading a Gazette 

Are purchased by all agonies and crimes : 
Or if these do not move you, don't forget 

Such doom may be your own in after-times. 
Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt, 

Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes. 
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present 

story, 
Then feec 1 her famine fat with Wellesley's glory. 

OXXVI. 

But still there is unto a patriot nation, 

Which loves so well its country and its king, 

A subject of sublimest exultation — 

Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing ! 

Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation, 

Strip your green fields, and to your harvests 
cling, 

G aunt famine never shall approach the throne — 

Though Ireland starve, great George weighs 
twenty stone. 



CXXVII. 

But let me put an end unto my themfc : 

There was an end of Ismail — hapless town ! 
Far fiash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's 
stream, 
And redly ran his blushing waters down. 
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream 
Rose still ; but fainter were the thunders 
grown : 
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall. 
Some hundreds breathed — the rest were silent 
all! 

exxvm. 

In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise 
The Russian army upon this occasion, 

A virtue much in fashion now a-days, 

And therefore worthy of commemoration: 

The topic 's tender, so shall be my phrase — 
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long 
station 

In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual. 

Had made them chaste ; — they ravish'd very 
little. 

CXXIX. 

Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less 
Might here and there occur some violation 

In the other line; — but not to such excess 
As when the French, that dissipated nation 

Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess. 
Except cold weather and commiseration; 

But all the ladies, save some tweuty score, 

Were almost as much virgins as before. 

exxx. 

Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark, 
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or oj 
taste — [mark- 

Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could 
Their friends from foes, — besides such things 
from haste 
Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark 

Of light to save the venerably chaste : 
But six old damsels, each of seventy years, 
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers. 

cxxxi. 

But on the whole their continence was great; 

So that some disappointment there ensued 
To those who had felt the inconvenient state 

Of " single blessedness," and thought .it good 
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate, 

To bear these crosses) for each waning prude 
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding. 
Without the expense and tne suspense ol Dcd. 
ding. 



DON JUAN. 



433 



CXXXII. 

Some voices of the buiom middle-aged 
Were also heard to wonder in the din 

(Widows of forty were these birds long caged) 
" Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!" 

But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged, 
Theie was small leisure for superfluous sin ; 

But whether they escaped or no. lies hi. 

In darkness — I can only hope they did. 

CXXXUI. 

5u\v arrow now was conqueror — a match 
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade. 

W T hile mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, 

like thatch [lay'd, 

Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce al- 

With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch ; 
And here exactly follows what he said : — 

" Glory to God and to the Empress ! " {Potters 

Eternal.' such names mingled!)" Ismail's ours." 



CXXXTII. 

And when you hear historians talk of thronM. 

And those that sate upon them, let it be 
As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones 

And wonder what old world such things 
could see, 
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones, 

Th; pleasant riddles of futurity — 
Guessing at what shall happily be hid, 

As the real purpose of a pyramid. 



CXXXVIIl 

.Reader ! I have kept my word, — at leastso fat 
As ihe first Canto promised. You have now 

Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war — 
All very accurate, you must allow, 

And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar; 
For I have drawn much less with along bow 

Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing, 

But Phoebus lends me now and then a string, 



CXXXIV. 

Methinks these are the most tremendous words, 
Since"Mene,Mene,Tekel," and "Upharsin," 

Which hands or penshaveevertraced of swords. 
Heaven help me ! I'm but little of a parson: 

What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's, 
Severe, sublime ; the prophet wrote no farce 
on 

The fate of nations : — but this Russ so witty 

Could rhvme, like Nero, o'er a burning citv. 



exxxv. 

He wrote this Polar melody, and set it, 
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans, 

Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget 
it — 
For 1 will teach, if possible, the stones 

To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it 
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones ; — 

But ye — our children's children! think how we 

Show'd what things were before the world was 
free 

cxxxvi. 
That hour is not for us, but t is for you : 

And as, in the great joy of your millennium, 
You hardly will believe such things were true 
As now occur, I thought that I would pen 
you 'em ; 
But may their very memory perish too ! — 
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain 
you 'em 
More than you scorn the savages of yore, 
Who painted their bare limbs.but/iof with gore 



29 



CXXXIX. 

With which I still can harp, and carp, and 
fiddle. 

What farther hath befallen or may befall 
The hero of this grand poetic riddle, 

I by and by may tell you, if at all: 
But now I choose to break off in the middle, 

Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn 
wall, 
While Juan is sent off with the despatch, 
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch. 

CXL. 

This special honour was conferr'd, because 
He had behaved with courage and hu 
manity — [pause 

Which last men like, when they have time to 
From their ferocities produced by vanity. 

His little captive gain'd him some applause 
For saving her amidst the wild insanity 

Of carnage, — and I think he was more glad 
in her 

Safetv, than his new order of St. Vladimir. 



The Moslem orphan went with her protector, 
Forshe was homeless, houseless, helpless; ail 

Her friends, like the sad family of Hector, 
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall, 

Her very place of birth was but a spectre 
Of what ithadbeen; there the Muezzin's call 

To prayer was heard no more ! — and Juan wept, 

And made a vow*to shield her, which he kej t 
2? 



434 



DON JUAN. 



Bon gjuan. 



CANTO THE NINTH. 



On. Wellington ! (or " Villainton " — for Fame 
Sounds the heroic syllables both ways ; 

France could not even conquer your great name, 
Butpunn'ditdownto this facetious phrase — 

Beating or beaten she will laugh the same,) 
You have obtain'd great pensions and much 
praise : 

Glory like yours should any dare gainsay, 

Humanity would rise, and thunder " Nay !" 

ii. 

I don't think that you used Kinnaird quite well 
In Marinet's affair — in fact, 'twas shabby, 

And like some other things won't do to tell 
Up«n your tomb in Westminster's old abbey. 

Upon the rest 'tis not worth while to dwell, 
Such tales being for the tea-hours of some 
tabby ; 

But though your years as man tend fast to zero, 

In fact your grace is still but a young hero. 



ThoughBri tain owes (and pays you too) so much, 
Yet Europe doubtless owes you greatly more: 

You have repair" d Legitimacy's crutch, 
A prop not quite so certain as before : 

The Spanish, and the French, as well as Dutch, 
Have seen, and felt, how strongly you restore ; 

And Waterloo has made the world your debtor 

(I wish your bards would sing it rather better). 



You are "the best of cut-throats:" — do not 
start; [applied: — 

TV phrase is Shakspeare's, and not mis- 
Vm's ^rain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, 

Unless her cause by right be sanctified. 
If you have acted once a generous part, 

The world,not the world's masters.will decide, 
And I shall be delighted to learn who, 
Save you and yours, have gain'd by Waterloo ? 



And swallowing eulogy muoh mo e than sAore, 



lie 



L ..cf. 



May like being praised for every lucky bio- 
Call'd" Saviour of the Nations" — not yet saved, 
And "Europe's Liberator" — still enslaved. 

VI. 

I 've done. Now go and dine from off the plat* 
Presented by the Prince of the Brazils, 

And send the sentinel before your gate 

A slice or two from your luxurious meals: 

He fought, but has not fed so well of late. 
Some hunger, too, they say the people feels:— 

There is no doubt that you deserve your ration. 

But pray give back a little to the nation. 

VII. 

I don't mean to reflect — a man so great as 
You, my lord duke ! is far above reflection: 

The high Koman fashion, too, of Cincinnatus, 
With modern history has but small connec- 
tion : 

Though as an Irishman you love potatoes, 
You need not take them under your direction ; 

And half a million lor your Sabine farm 

Is rather dear ! — I 'm sure I mean no harm. 



Great men have always scorn 'd great recoin- 
pences : 

Epaminondas saved his Thebes, and died, 
Not leaving even his funeral expenses: 

George Washington had thanks and nought 

beside, [is) 

Except the all-cloudless glory (which few men's 

To free his country : Pitt too had his pride, 
And as a high-soul'd minister of state is 
Renown'd for ruining Great Britain gratis. 

IX. 

Never had mortal man such opportunity, 
Except Napoleon, or abused it more: 

You might have freed fallen Europe from the 
unity 
Of tyrants, and been blest from shore to shore . 

And now — whatw your lame ? Shall the Muse 

tune it ye? [o'er? 

Now — that the rabble's first vain shouts are 

Go ! hear it in your famish'd country's cries 

Behold the world ! and curse your victories ' 



I am no flatterer — you've supp'd full of flattery : 
They say you like it too — 'tis no great wonder. 

He whose whole life has been assault and bat- 
tery, 
At last may get a littlc'tired of thunder ; 



As these new cantos touch on warlike feats, 
To you the unflattering Muse deigns to 
inscribe 

Truths, that you will not read in the Gazettes, 
But which 'tis time to teach the hireling trib 



DON JUAN. 



43, 



Who fatten on their country's gore, and debts, 

Must be recited, and — without a bribe. 
Yon did great things ; but not being great in 

mind, 
Have left undone the greatest — and mankind. 



Which makes all Styx through one small livei 

flow. 

A peasant's sweat is worth his lord's estate: 

Let this one toil for bread — that rack for rent, 

He who sleeps best may be the most content 



Death laughs — Go ponder o'er the skeleton 
With which men image out the unknown 
thing 
That hides the past world, like to a set sun 
Which still elsewhere may rouse a brighter 
spring- 
Death laughs at all you weep for: — look upon 
This hourly dread of all ! whose threaten 'd 
sting 
Turns life to terror, even though in its sheath: 
Mark ! how its lipless mouth grins without 
breath ! 

XIT. 

Mark ! how it laughs and scorns at all you are ! 

And yet was what you are : from ear to ear 
It laughs not — there is now no fleshy bar 

So call'd ; the Antic long hath ceased to hear, 
But still he smiles; and whether near or far, 

He strips from man that mantle (far more dear 
Than even the tailors), his incarnate skin, 
White, black, or copper — the dead bones will 
grin. 

XIII. 

A.nd thus Death laughs, — it is sad merriment, 
But still it is so ; and with such example 

Why should not Life be equally content 
With his superior, in a smile to trample 

Upon the nothings which are daily spent 
Like bubbles on an ocean much less ample 

Than the eternal deluge, which devours 

Suns as rays — worlds like atoms — years like 
hours ? 



" To be, or not to be? that is the question," 
Says Shakspeare, who just now is much in 
fashion. 

I am neither Alexander nor Hephaestion, 
Nor ever had for abstract fame muoh passion ; 

But would much rather have a sound digestion 
Than Buonaparte's cancer: — could I dash on 

Through fifty victories to shame or fame, 

Without a stomach — what were a good name? 

xv. 

"Oh dura ilia messorum!" — " Oh 

i'e rigid guts of reapers!" I translate 

For the great benefit of those who know 
What indigestion is — that inward fate 



" To be, or not to be?" — Ere I decide, 
1 should be glad to know that which is being 

T is true we speculate both far and wide, 
And deem, because we see, we are all-seeing 

For my part, I'll enlist on neither side, 
Until I see both sides for once agreeing. 

For me, I sometimes think that life is death, 

Rather than life a mere affair of breath. 



" Que scais-je ? " was the motto of Montaigne, 
As also of the first academicians; 

That all is dubious which man may attain, 
Was one of their most favourite positions. 

There's no such thing as certainty, that's plain 
As any of Mortality's conditions ; 

So little do we know what we're about in 

This world, 7 doubt if doubt itself be doubting. 

xvm. 
It is a pleasant voyage perhaps to float, 
Like Pyrrho, on a sea of speculation ; 
But what if carrying sail capsize the boat ? 
Your wise men don't know much of navi- 
gation ; 
And swimming long in the abyss of thought 
Is apt to tire: a calm and shallow station 
Well nigh the shore, where one stoops down 

and gathers 
Some pretty shell, is best for moderate bathers 



" But heaven," as Cassio says, " is above all — 
No more of this, then, — let us pray !" Wo 
have 

Souls to save, since Eve's slip and Adam's fall, 
Which tumbled all mankind into the grave. 

Besides fish, beasts, and birds. " The spar- 
row s fall 
Is special providence," though how it gave 

Offence, we know not; probably it perch'd 

Upon the tree which Eve so fondly seaneh'd 



Oh ! ye immortal Gods ! what is theogony ? 
Oh ! thou, too, mortal man ! what is philan- 
thropy? [mogony? 

Oh! world, which was and is, what is cos- 
Some people have accused me of misaa 
thropy ; 



436 



DON JUAN. 



And yet I know no more than tne manogany 
That forms this desk, of what they mean ; 
lykanthropy lli 
I comprehend, for without transformation 
Men become wolves on any slight occasion. 

XXI. 

But I, the mildest, meekest of mankind. 
Like Moses, or Melancthon, who have ne'er 

Done any thing exceedingly unkind, — [bear 
And (though I could not now and then for- 

Foilowing the bent of body or of mind) 
Have always had a tendency to spare, — 

Why do they call me misanthrope ? Because 

They hate me, not I them : — and here we'll 
pause. 

XXII. 

T is time we shcidd proceed with our good 
poem, — 

For I maintain (hat it is really good, 
Not only in the body but the proem, 

However little both are understood 
Just now, — but by and by the Truth will 
show 'em 

Herself in her sublimest attitude : 
And till she doth, I fain must be content 
To share her beauty and her banishment 

XXIII. 

Our hero (and, I trust, kind reader! yours — ) 

Was left upon his way to the chief city 
/f the immortal Peter's polish'd boors, 
Who still have shown themselves more brave 
than witty. 
I know its mighty empire now allures 

Much flattery — even Voltaire's, and that's 
a pity. 
For me, I deem an absolute autocrat 
Not a barbarian, but much worse than that. 

XXIV. 

And I will war, at least in words (and — should 

My chance so happen — deeds>, with all who 

war [far most rude, 

With Thought;— and of Thought's foes by 
Tyrants and sycophants have been and are. 

I know not who may conquer: if I could 
Have such a prescience, it should be no bar 

To this my plain, sworn, downright detestation 

Of every despotism in everv nation. 

XXV 

It is not that I adulate the people : 

Without me, there arc demagogues enough, 

And infidels, to pull down every steeple, 
And set up in their stead some proper stuff. 

Whether they may sow scepticism to reap hell, 
As is the Christian dogma rather rough, 

I do not know ; — I wish men to be free 

As much from mobs as kings — from you as me 



XXVI. 

The consequence is, being of no part* 
I shall offend all parties: — never mind ! 

My words, at least, are more sincere and heaitj 
Than if I sought to sail before the wind. 

He who has nought to gain can have small 
art: he 
Who neither wishes to be bound or bind, 

May still expatiate freely, as will I, 

Nor give my voice to slavery's jackall cry. 



That's an appropriate simile, that jackall , — ■ 
I 've heard them in the Ephesian ruins howl 

By night, as do that mercenary pack all, 
Power's base purveyors, who for picking)? 
prowl, [all. 

And scent the prey their masters would attack- 
However, the poor jackalls are less foul 

(As being the brave lion's keen providers) 

Than human insects, catering for spiders. 

XXVIII. 

Raise but an arm ! 't will brush their web away. 

And without that, their poison and their 

claws [say — 

Are useless. Mind, good people ! what I 
(Or rather peoples) — go on without pause ! 

The web of these tarantulas each day 

Increases, till you shall make common cause ■ 

None, save the Spanish fly and Attic bee, 

As yet are strongly stinging to be free. 



Don Juan, who had shone in the late slaughtei , 
Was left upon his way with the despatch, 

Where blood was talk'd of as we would of 
water; 
And carcasses that lay as thick as thatch 

O'er silenced cities, merely served to flatter 
Fair Catherine's pastime — who look'd on 
the match 

Between these nations as a main of cocks, 

Wherein she liked her own to stand like rocks. 



And there in a kibitka he roll'd on 

(A cursed sort of carriage without springs, 

Which on rough roads leaves scarcely a whole 
bone,) 
Pondering on glory, chivalry, and kings, 

And orders, and on all that he had done — 
And wishing that post-horses had the wings 

Of Pegasus, or at the least post-chaises 

Had feathers, when a traveller on deep way* »• 



DON JUAN. 



437 



XXXI. 

At every jolt — and they were many — still 
He tnrn'd his eyes upon his little charge, 

As if he wish'd that she should fare less ill 
Than he, in these sad highways left at large 

To ruts, and flints, and lovely Nature's skill, 
Who is no paviour, nor admits a barge 

On her canals, where God takes sea and land, 

Fishery and farm, both into his own hand. 



At least he pays no rent, and has best right 
To be the first of what we used to call 

" Gentlemen farmers" — a race worn out quite, 
Since lately there have been no rents at all, 

And " gentlemen " are in a piteous plight, 
And " farmers " can't raise Ceres from her 
fall : [thoughts 

She fell with Buonaparte — What strange 

Arise, when we see emperors fall with oats ! 

XXXIII. 

But Juan turn'd his eyes on the sweet child 
Whom he had saved from slaughter — what 
a trophy ! 
Oh! ye who built up monuments, defiled 
With gore, like Nadir Shah, that costive 
sophy, 
Who, after leaving Hindostan a wild, 

And scarce to the Mogul a cup of coffee 
To soothe his woes withal, was slain , the sinner ! 
Because he could no more digest his din 
ner: 1I3 — 

xxxiv. 
Oh ye ! or we ! or he ! or she ! reflect, 

That one life saved, especially if young 
Or pretty, is a thirg to recollect 

Far sweeter than the greenest laurels sprung 
From the manure of human clay, though deck'd 

With all the praises ever said or sung: 

Though hymn'd by every harp, unless within 

oui* heart joins chorus, Fame is but a din. 



Oh ! ye great authors luminous, voluminous ! 
Ye twice ten hundred thousand daily scribes ! 
Whose pamphlets, volumes, newspapers, il- 
lumine, us ! [bribes, 
Whether you're paid by government in 
To prove the public debt is not consuming us — 
Or, roughly treading on the " courtier's 
kibes," 
With clownish heel, your popular circulation 
F*eds you by printing half the realm 's st&rva 
tion ; — 



XXXVI. 

Oh, ye great authors! — " Aproposdes bottes,"-— 
I have forgotten what I meant to say, 

As sometimes have been greater sages' lots ;— 
'Twas something calculated to allay 

All wrath in barracks, palaces, or cots : 
Certes it would have been but thrown away 

And that's one comfort for my lost advice, 

Although no doubt it was beyond all price. 

XXXVII. 

But let it go : — it will one day be found 
With other relics of '*' a former world," 

When this world shall be former, underground. 

Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisp'd, and 

curl'd, [drown'd. 

Baked, fried, or burnt, turn'd inside-out, or 
Like all the worlds before, which have been 
hurl'd 

First out of, and then back again to chaos, 

The superstratum which will overlay us. 

XXXVIII. 

So Cuvier says ; — and then shall come again 
Unto the new creation, rising out 

From our old crash, some mystic, ancient strain 
Of things destroy'd and left in airy doubt ; 

Like to the notions we now entertain 
Of Titans, giants, fellows of about 

Som. hundred feet in height, not to s&ymUe*. 

And mammoths, and your winged crocodiles. 

XXXIX. 

Think if then George the Fourth should be 
dug up ! [East 

How the new worldlings of the then new 
Will wonder where such animals could sup! 

(For they themselves will be but of the least . 
Even worlds miscarry, when too oft they pup, 

And every new creation hath decreased 
In si/.e, from overworking the material — 
Men are but maggots of some huge Earth's 
burial.) 

XL. 

How will — to these young people, just thrust 
out 

From some fresh Paradise, and set to plough 
And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about 

And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind 
and sow, 
Till all the arts at length are brought about, 

Especially of war and taxing — how, 
I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em 
Look like the monsters of a new museum ? 

XLI. 

But I am apt to grow too metaphysical : 
" The time is out of joint," — and so am I 

I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical. 
And deviate into matters rather dry. 



138 



DON JUAN. 



[ ne'er decide what I shall say, and this I call 

Much too poetical : men should know why 

They write, and for what end ; hut note or text, 

1 never know the word which will come next. 



So on I ramble, now and then narrating, 
Now pondering: — it is time we should 
narrate. 

I left Don Juan, with his horses baiting — 
Now we '11 get o'er the ground at a great rate. 

I shall not be particular in stating 

His journey, we've so many tours of late: 

Suppose him then at Petersburgh; suppose 

That pleasant capital of painted snows ; 

XL1II. 

appose him in a handsome uniform ; 
A scarlet coat, black facings, a long plume, 
Waving, like sails new shiver'd in a storm, 

Over a cock'd hat in a crowded room, 
And brilliant breeches, bright as a Cairn 
Gorme : ll4 
Of yellow casimire we may presume, 
White stockings drawn uncurdled as new milk 
O'er limbs whose symmetry set oil' the silk; 

xnv. 
Suppose him sword by side, and hat in hand, 
Made up by youth, fame, and an army 
tailor — 
That great, enchanter, at whose rod's command 
Beauty springs forth, and Nature's self turns 
paler, 
Seeing how Art can make her work more grand 
(When she don't pin men's limbs in like a 
gaoler), — 
Behold him placed as if upon a pillar! He 
Seems Love turn'd a lieutenant of artillery. 

XLV. 

His bandage slipp'd down into a cravat; 

His wings subdued to epaulettes; his quiver 
Shrunk to a scabbard, with his arrows at 

His side as a small sword, but sharp as ever; 
His bow converted into a cock'd hat ; 

But still so like, that Psyche were more 
clever [stupid), 

Than some wives (who make blunders no less 
If she had not mistaken him for Cupid. 

XLVI. 

The courtiers stared, the ladies whisper'd, and 
The empress smiled: the reigning favourite 
f'-own'd — 
1 quite forget which of them was in hand 
/ust then; as they are rather numerous 
found, 



Who took by turns that difficult oomaiau I, 

Since first her majesty was singly crowe'i 
But they were mostly nervous six-foot fellows, 
All fit to make a Patagonian jealous. 

XLV1I. 

Juan was none of these, but slight and slim, 
Blushing andbeardless ; and yet ne'ertheles* 

There was a something in his turn of limb, 
And still more in his eye, which seem'd to 
express, 

That though he look'd like one of the seraphim, 
There lurk'd a man beneath the spirit's dress. 

Besides, the empress sometimes liked a boy. 

And had just buried the fair-faced Laaskii. 113 

XLVIII. 

No wonder then that Yermoloff, or Momonoff, 

Or Scherbatofi', or any other off 
Or on, might dread her majesty had not room 
enough 

Within her bosom (which was not too tough) 
Fur a new Maine; a thought to cast ol gloom 
enough 

Along the aspect, whether smooth or rough 
Of him who, in the language of his station 
Then held that " high official situation." 

XLIX 

O, gentle ladi?s ! should you seek to knot* 
The import of this diplomatic phrase, 

Bid Ireland'sLondonderry's Marquess ' l6 show 
His parts of speech ; and in the strange 
displays 

Of that odd string of words, all in a row, 
Which none divine, and every one obeys, 

Perhaps you may pick out some queer no 
meaning. 

Of that weak wordy harvest the sole gleaning. 



I think I can explain myself without 
That sad inexplicable beast of prey — 

That Sphinx, whose words would ever be a 
doubt, 
Did not his deeds unriddle them each da_\ — 

That monstrous hieroglyphic — that long spool 
Of blood and water, leaden Castlereagh ! 

And here I must an anecdote relate, 

But luckily of no great length or weight. 



An English lady ask'd of an Italian, 
What were the actual and official dntie* 

Of the strange thing, some women set a value 

on, fties^ 

Which hovers oft about some married be»i»- 



DON JUAN. 



439 



Called : 'Oava.ier servente?" a Pygmalion 

Whose statues warm (I fear, alas ! too true 

'tis) [them, 

Beneath his art. The dame, press'd to disclose 

Said — " Lady, I beseech you to suppose them." 



And thus I supplicate your supposition, 
And mildest, matron-like interpretation, 

Of the imperial favourite's condition. 

'T was a high place, the highest in the nation 

In fact, if nut in rank; and the suspicion 
Of any one's attaining to his station, 

No doubt gave pain, where each new pair of 
shoulders, [holders. 

If rather broad, made stocks rise and their 



Juan, I said, was a most beauteous boy, 
And had retain' d his boyish look beyond 

The usual hirsute seasons which destroy, 
With beards and whiskers, and the like, the 
fond 

Parisian aspect, which upset old Troy 

And founded Doctors' Commons: — I have 
conn'd [quer'd, 

The history of divorces, which, though che- 

Calls Ilion's the first damages on record. 



And Catherine, who loved all things, (save her 
lord, [much, 

Who was gone to his place,) and pass'd for 
Admiring those (by dainty dames abhmr'd) 

Gigantic gentlemen, yet had a touch 
Of sentiment ; and he she most adored 

Was the lamented Lanskoi,who was such 
A lover as had cost her many a tear, 
And yet but made a middling grenadier. 



Oh thou " teterrima causa " of all " belli " — 
Thou gate of life and death — thou nonde- 
script ! 

Whence is our exit and our entrance, — well 1 
May pause inpondering how all souls are dipt 

In thy perennial fountain: — how man jell, I 
Know not, since knowledge saw her branches 
stript 

Of her first fruit; but how he falls and rises 

Since, thou hast settled beyond all surmises. 



Some call thee "the worst cause of war," but I 
Maintain thou art the best : for after all 

From mee we come, to thee we go, and why 
To get at thee not batter down a wall, 



Or waste a world? since no one can deny 

Thou dost replenish worlds both great and 
small : 
With, or without thee, all things at a stand 
Are, or would be, thou sea of life's dry land ! 

Lvn 
Catherine, who was the grand epitome 

Of that great cause of war, or peace, or what 
You please (it causes all the things which be 

So you may take your choice of this or that) — 
Catherine, I say, was very glad to see 

The handsome herald, on whose plumage sal 
Victory ; and, pausing as she saw him kneel 
With his despatch, forgot to break the seal. 

LVIII 

Then recollecting the whole empress, nor 
Forgetting quite the woman (which com- 
posed [tore 
At least three parts of this great whole), she 

The letter open with an air which posed 
The court, that watch'd each look her visage 
wore, 
Until a royal smile at length disclosed 
Fair weather for the day. Though rather 
spacious, [cious. 

Her face was noble, her eyes fine, mouth gra- 

LIX. 

Great joy was hers, or rather joys: the first 
Was a ta'en city, thirty thousand slain. 

Glory and triumph o'er her aspect burst, 
As an East Indian sunrise on the main. 

These quench'd a moment her ambition's 
thirst — 
So Arab deserts drink in summer's rain . 

In vain ! — As fall the dews on quenchless 
sands, 

Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands \ 

LX. 

Her next amusement was more fanciful ; 

She smiled at mad Suwarrow's rhymes, who 
threw 
Into a Russian couplet rather dull [slew. 1M 

The whole gazette of thousands whom he 
Her third was feminine enough to annul 

The shudder which runs natura ly through 
Our veins, when things call'd sovereigns think 

it best 
To kill, and generals turn it into jest. 

LXI. 

The two first feelings ran their course complete. 

And lighted first her eye, and then bet 

mouth : 

The whole court look'd immediately mostsweet, 

Like flowers well water'd after a ong 

drouth •— 



440 



DON JUAN. 



tit when on the lieutenant at her feet 
Her majesty, who liked to gaze on youth 
Almost as much as on a new despatch, 
Glanced mildly, all the world was on the watch. 

LXII. 

Though somewhat large, exuherant, and trucu- 
lent, [a figure 
When wroth — while pleased, she was as fine 
As those who like things rosy, ripe, and suc- 
culent, [vigour. 
Would wish to look on, while they are in 
She could repay each amatory look you lent 
With interest, and in turn was wont with 
rigour 
To exact of Cupid's bills the full amount 
At sight, nor would permit you to discount. 

LXIII. 

With her the latter, though at times convenient, 

Was not so necessary; for they tell 
That she was handsome, and though fierce 
look'd lenient, 
And always used her favourites too well. 
If once beyond her boudoir's precincts in ye 
went, 
Your " fortune " was in a fair way " to swell 
A man " (as Giles says) ; for though she would 

widow all 
Nations, she liked man as an individual. 



'Tis very true the hill seem'd rather high, 

For a lieutenant to climb up; but skill 
Smuoth'd even the Simplon's steep, and by 
God's blessing, [kissing." 

With youth and health all kisses are " heaven- 



Her majesty look'd down, the youthlook'd up— 
And so they fell in love ; — she with his face. 

His grace, his God-knows- what : for Cupid* 
cup 
With the first draught intoxicates apace, 

A quintessential laudanum or " black drop," 
Which makes one drunk at once, without 
the base 

Expedient of full bumpers; for the eye 

In lore drinks all life's fountains,(save tears) dry. 

LXVIII. 

He, on the other hand, if not in love, 
Fell into that no less imperious passion, 

Self-love — which, when some sort of thing 
above 
Ourselves, a singer, dancer, much in fashion. 

Or duchess, princess, empress, '" deigns to 

prove" [a rash one, 

(T is Pope's phrase) a great longing, though 

For one especial person out of many, 

Makes us believe ourselves as good as any. 



What a strange thing is man ! and what a 
stranger 

Is woman ! What a whirlwind is her head, 
And what, a whirlpool full of depth and danger 

Is all the rest about her ! Whether wed, 
Or widow, maid, or mother, she can change her 

Mind like the wind: whatever she has said 
Or done, is light to what she'll say or do; — 
The oldest thing on record, and yet new ! 



Besides, he was of that delighted age 

Which makes all female ages equal — when 

We don't much care with whom we maj 
engage, 
As bold as Daniel in the lion's den, 

So that we can our native sun assuage 

In the next ocean, which may flow just then, 

To make a twilight in, just as Sol's heat is 

Quench'd in the lap of the salt sea. or Thetis. 



Oh Catherine! (for of all interjections, 

To thee both oh ! and ah ! belong of right 

In love and war) how odd are the connections 

Of human thoughts, which jostle in their 

flight! [tions: 

Just now yours were cut out in different sec- 

First Ismail's capture caught your fancy 

quite: [batch: 

Next of new knights, the fresh and glorious 

And thirdly he who brought you the despatch ! 

LXVI. 

Shakspeare talks of " the herald Mercury 
New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill;" 

And some such visions cross'd her majesty, 
While her young herald knelt before her still. 



And Catherine (we must say thus much for 
Catherine), [thing 

Though bold and bloody, was the kind of 
Whose temporary passion was quite flattering, 

Because each lover look'd a sort of king, 
Made up upon an amatory pattern, 

A royal husband in all save the ring — 
Which, being the damn'dest part of matrimony, 
Seem'd taking out the sting to leave the honey 



And when you add to 'Jiis, her womanhood 
In its meridian, her blue eyes or gray — 

(The last, if they have soul, are quite as good, 
Or better, as the bept examples say 



DON JUAN. 



44] 



Napoleons, Mary's (queen cf Scotland), 

should 
Lend to that colour a transcendent ray ; 
And Pallas also sanctions the same hue, 
loo wise to look through optics black or 

blue> — 

LXXII. 

Her sweet smile, and her then majestic figure, 
Her plumpness, her imperial condescension, 

Her preference of a boy to men much bigger 
(Fellows whom Messalina's self would 
pension), 

Her prime of life, just now in juicy vigour, 
With other extras, which we need not 
mention, — 

All these, or any one of these, explain 

Enough to make a stripling very vain. 

LXXIII. 

And that's enough, for love is vanity, 
Selfish in its beginning as its end, 

Except where 'tis a mere insanity, [blend 
A maddening spirit which would strive to 

Itself with beauty's frail inanity, 

On which the passion's self seems to depend : 

And hence some heathenish philosophers 

Make love the main-spring of the universe. 

LXXIV. 

Besides Platonic love, besides the love 

Of God, the love of sentiment, the loving 

Of faithful pairs — (I needs must rhyme with 

dove, [verses moving 

That good old steam-boat which keeps 

Gainst reason — Reason ne'er was hand-and- 

glove [proving 

With rhyme, but always leant less to im- 

The sound than sense) — besides all these 

pretences [name senses ; 

To love, there are those things which words 

LXXV. 

Those movements, those improvements in our 
bodies 

Which make all bodies anxious to get out 
Of their own sand-pits, to mix with a goddess, 

For such all women are at first no doubt. 
How beautiful tha*. moment ! and how odd is 

That fever which precedes the languid rout 
Of oar sensations! What a curious way 
The whole thing is of clothing souls in clay! 

LXXVT. 

The noblest kind of love islovePlatonical, 
To end or to begin with ; the next grand 

Is that which may be christen'd love canon- 
ical, 
Hfcausc the clergy take the thing in hand; 



The third sort to be noted in oui chronicle 

As nourishing in every Christian land. 
Is, when chaste matrons to their other ties 
Add what may be call'd marriage in disguise 

LXXVII. 

Well, we won't analyse — our story must 
Tell for itself: the sovereign was smitten, 

T uan much fiatter'd by her love, or lust; — 
I cannot stop to alter words once written, 

And the two are so mix'd with human dust, 
That he who names one, both perchance 
may hit on : 

But in such matters Russia's mighty empress 

Behaved no better than a common sempstress. 

LXXVIII. 

The whole court melted into one wide whisper, 
And all lips were applied unto all ears! 

The elder ladies' wrinkles curl'd much crisper 
As they beheld ; the younger cast some leers 

On one another, and each lovely lisper 

Smiled as she talk'd the matter o'er ; b':t 
tears 

Of rivalship rose in each clouded eye 

Of all the standing army who stood by 

LXXIX. 

All the ambassadors of all the powers 

Inquired, Who was this very new young 
man, 
Who promised to be great in some few hours? 
Which is full soon (though life is but a 
span). 
Already they beheld the silver showers 
Of rubles rain, as fast as specie can, 
Upon his cabinet, besides the presents 
Of several ribands, and some thousand pea- 
sants. 118 

LXXX. 

Catherine was generous, — all such ladies are: 
Love, that great opener of the heart and all 

The ways that lead there, be they near or far, 
Above, below, by turnpikes great or small, — 

Love — (though she had a cursed taste for war, 
And was not the best wife, unless we call 

Such Clytemnestra, though perhaps 'tis better 

That one should die, than two drag on the 
fetter) — 

LXXXI. 

Love had made Catherine make each lover's 
fortune, 
Unlike our own half-chaste Elizabeth, 
Whose avarice all disbursements did impor- 
tune. 
If history, the grand liar, ever saitto 



442 



DON JUAN 



The truth ; and though grief her old age 
might shorten, 
Becar.se she put a favourite to death, 
Her vile, ambiguous method of flirtation, 
And stinginess, disgrace her sex and station. 

LXXXII. 

But when the levee rose, and all was bustle 
In the dissolving circle, all the nations' 

Ambassadors began as 'twere to hustle 

Round the young man with their congratula- 
tions. 

Also the softer silks were heard to rustle 
Of gentle dames, among whose recreations 

It is to speculate on handsome faces, 

Especially when such lead to high places. 

LXXXIIl. 

Juan, who found himself, he knew not how, 
A general object of attention, made 

His answers with a very graceful bow, 
As if born for the ministerial trade. 

Though modest, on his unembarrass'd brow 
Nature had written " gentleman." He said 

Little, but to the purpose ; and his manner 

Flung hovering graces o'er him like a banner. 

LXXXIV. 

An order from her majesty consign'd 
Our young lieutenant to the genial care 

Of those in office: all the world look'd kind, 

(As it will look sometimes with the first 

stare, [mind,) 

Which youth would not act ill to keep in 
As also did Miss Protasoff then there, 

Named from her mystic office "l'Eprouveuse," 

A term inexplicable to the Muse. 

LXXXV. 

With her then, as in humble duty bound, 
Juan retired, — and so will I, until 

My Pegasus shall tire of touching ground. 
Wehavejust lit on a "heaven-kissing hill," 

So lofty that I feel my brain turn round, 
And all my fancies whirling like a mill ; 

tflThich is a signal to my nerves and brain 

To take a quiet ride in some green lane. 



Won 3Juan. 



CANTO THE TENTH. 



W'hkn Newton saw an apple fall, he found 
in fiat slight startle from his contempla- 
tion — 



Tis said (for I'll *.ot answer above ground 

For any sage's creed or calculation) — 
A mode of proving that the earth turn'd round 
In a most natural whirl, call'd " gravita- 
tion;" 
And this is the sole mortal who could grapple, 
Since Adam, with a fall, or with an apple.' '^ 

ii. 
Man fell with apples, and with apples rose. 

If this be true ; for we must deem the mod 
In which Sir Isaac Newton could disclose 
Through the then unpaved stars the turn 
pike road, 
A thing to counterbalance human woes : 

For ever since immortal man hath glow'd 
With all kinds of mechanics, and full soon 
Steam-engines will conduct him to the moon. 

in., 
And wherefore this exordium? — Why, jusi 
now, 
In taking up this paltry sheet of paper, 
My bosom underwent a glorious glow, 
And my internal spirit cut a caper: 
And though so much inferior, as I know, 
To those who, by the dint of glass and va 
pour, 
Discover stars, and sail in the wind's eye, 
I wish to do as much by poesy. 

IV. 

In the wind's eve I have sail'd, and sail ; but 
for 

The stars, I own my telescope is dim ; 
But at the least I have shunn'd the common 
shore, [skim 

And leaving land far out of sight, would 
r he ocean of eternity : the roar 

Of breakers has not daunted my slight, trim, 
But still sea-worthy skiff; and she may float 
Where ships have founder 'd, as doth many 
boat. 

v. 
We left our hero, Juan, in the bloom 

Of favouritism, but not yet in the blush; — 
And far be it from my Muses to presume 

(For I have more than one Muse at a push) 
To follow him beyond the drawing-room: 

It is enough that Fortune found him flush 
Of youth, and vigour, beauty, and those things 
Which for an instant clip enjoyment's wings. 

VI. 

But soon they grow again and leave their nest. 
" Oh !" saith the Psalmist, " that I had a 
dove's 
Pinions to flee away, and be at rest !" 

And who that recollects young years anc 1 
loves, — 



DON JUAN. 



443 



Thoughhoary now, and with a withering breast, 

And palsied fancy, which no longer roves 
Beyond its dimm'd eye's sphere, — but would 
much rather [father? 

Sigh like his son, than cough like his grand- 

VII. 

But sighs subside, and tears (even widows') 
shrink, 
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow, 
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink, 
Which threatens inundations deep and 
yellow ! [You'd think 

Such difference doth a few months make. 
Grief a rich field which never would lie 
fallow ; [boys, 

No more it doth, its ploughs but change their 
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys. 

VIII. 

But coughs will come when sighs depart — 
and now 

And then before sighs cease ; for oft the one 
Will bring the other, ere the lake-like brow 

Is ruffled by a wrinkle, or the sun 
Of life reach'd ten o'clock: and while aglow, 

Hectic and brief as summer's day nigh done, 

O'erspreads the cheek which seems too pure 

for clay, [they ! — 

Thousands blaze, love, hope, die, — how happy 

IX. 

But Juan was not meant to die so soon. 
We left him in the focus of such giory 
As may be won by favour of the moon 
Or ladies' fancies — rather transitory 
Perhaps ; but who would scorn the month of 
June, 
Because December, with his breath so hoary, 
Must come ? Much rather should he court the 

ray, 
To hoard up warmth against a wintry day. 

x 
Besides, he had some qualities which fix 

Middle-aged ladies even more than young: 
The former know what 's what ; while new- 
fiedged chicks 
Know little more of love than what is sung 
In rhymes, or dreamt (for fancy will play tricks) 
In visions of those skies from whence Love 
sprung. 
Some reckon women by their suns or years, 
I rather think the moon should date the dears 

XI. 

And why ? because she 's changeable and 
chaste. 
I know no other reason, whatsoe'er 



Suspicious people, who find fai j^n ha.ste, 
May choose to tax me with : which is not 
fair, 

Nor nattering to " their temper or their taste," 
As my friend Jeffrey writes with such an air 

However, I forgive him, and I trust 

He will forgive himself; — if not, I must. 

XII. 

Old enemies who have become new friends 
Should so continue— 'tis a point of honour, 

And I know nothing which could make amends 
For a return to hatred : I would shun her 

Like garlic, howsoever she extends 

Her hundred arms and legs, and fain out 
run her [toes — 

Old flames, new wives, become our bitterest 

Converted foes should scorn to join with those. 

XIII 

This were the worst desertion : — renegadoes, 
Even shuffling Southey, that incarnate lie, 
Would scarcely join again the " relbrma- 
does,"J20 

Whom he forsook to ^11 the laureate's sty ; 
And honest men from Iceland to Barbadoes, 

Whether in Caledon or Italy, 
Should not veer round with every breath, noi 

seize 
To pain, the moment when you cease to please. 

XIV. 

The lawyer and the critic but behold 

The baser sides of literature and life, 
And nought remains unseen, but much untold. 

By those who scour those double vales of strife 
While common men grow ignorantlv old, 

The lawyer's brief is like the surgeon's knife. 
Dissecting the whole inside of a question, 
And with it all the process of digestion. 

xv. 
A legal broom 's a moral chimney-sweeper, 

And that's the reason he himself 's so dirtv , 
The endless sootl21 bt stows a tint far deeper 

Than can be hid by altering his shirt : he 
Retains the sable stains of the dark creepei, 

At least some twenty-nine do out of ihirtv, 
In all their habits ; — not so you, I own ; 
As Cajsar wore his robe you wear your gowD 

XVI. 

And all our little feuds, at least all mine, 
Dear Jeffrey, once my most redoubted foe 

(As far as rhyme and criticism combine 
To make such puppets of us things below), 

Areover: Here's a health to " AuldLangSvne!' 
I do not know you, and may never know 

Your face — but you have acted on the whole 

Most nobly, and I own it from my soul. 



444 



DON JUAN. 



And when I use the phrase of " Auld Lang 
Syne ! " 

T is not address'd to you — the more 's the pity 
For me, for I would rather take my wine 

With you, than aught (save Scott) in your 

proud city. [whine, 

But somehow, — it may seem a schoolboy's 

And yet I seek not to be grand nor witty, 
But I am half a Scot by birtb, and bred 
A whole one, and my heart tiies to my head, — 

XVIII. 

As "Auld Lang Syne" brings Scotland, one 
and all, [and clear streams, 

Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, 
The Dee, the Don, Balgounie's brig's black 
wall™ 
All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams 
Of what! then dreamt, clothed in their own pall, 
Like Banquo's offspring ; — floating past me 
seems 
My childhood in this childishness of mine 
I care not — 't is a glimpse of" Auld Lang Syne." 

XIX. 

And though, as you remember, in a fit 

Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, 

I rail'd at Scots to show my wrath and wit, 
Whichmustbeown'd was sensitive and surly, 

Vet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit, 

They cannot quench young feelings fresh 
and early: [blood, 

[ "scotch'd not kill'd " the Scotchman in my 

And love the land of " mountain and of flood." 



Don Juan, who was real, or ideal, — 

For both are much the same, since what men 
think 

Exists when the once thinkers are less real 
Than what they thought for mind can nevei 
sink, 

And gainst, the body makes a strong appeal ; 
And yet 't is very puzzling on the brink 

Of what is call'd eternity, to stare, 

A nd know no more of what is here, than there ; — 

XXI. 

Don Juan grew a very polish'd Russian — 
How we won't mention, why we need not say: 

Few youthful minds can stand the strong con- 
cussion 
Of any slight temptation in their way; 

But his just now were spread as is a cushion 
Smooth'd for a monarch's seat of honour: gay 

Damsels, and dances, revels, ready money, 

Made ice seem paradise, and winter sunny. 



XXII. 

The favour of the empress was agreeable; 

And though the duty wax'd a little hard, 
Young people at his time of V'e should be abl- 

To come off handsomely in that regard. 
He was now growing up like a green tree, abk 

For love, war, or ambition, which reward 
Their luckier votaries, till old age's tedium 
Make some prefer the circulating medium. 



About this time, as might have been anticipated, 
Seduced by youth and dangerous examples 

Don Juan grew, 1 fear, a little dissipated ; 
Which is a sad thing, and not only tramples 

On our fresh feelings, but — as being participated 
With all kinds of incorrigible samples 

Of frail humanity -must make us selfish, 

And shut our souls up in us like a sheil-fisb 



This we pass over. We will also pass 
The usual progress of intrigues between 

Unequal matches, such as are, alas ! 

A young lieutenant's with a not old queen, 

But one who is not so youthful as she was 
In all the royalty of sweet seventeen. 

Sovereigns may sway materials, butnot matter 

And wrinkles, the d d democrats, w »u't 

flatter. 



And Death, the sovereign's sovereign, though 
the great 

Gracchus of all mortalitv, who levels. 
With his Agrarian lawsl23 ; the high estate 

Of him who feasts, and fights, and roars, anc 

revels, [awa* 

To one small grass-grown patch (which dium 

Corruption for its crop) with the poor devili 
Who never had a foot of land till now, — 
Death 's a relormer, all men must allow. 

XXVI. 

He lived (not Death, but Juan) in a hurry 
Of waste, and haste, and glare, and glow 
and glitter, [fun/,— 

In this gay clime of bear-skins black and 
Which (though I hate to say a thing that 's 
bitter) [flurry, 

Peep out sometimes, when things are in a 
Through all the " purple and fine linen/ 
fitter 
For Babylon's than Russia's royal harlot — 
And neutralise her outward show of scan**. 



DON JUAN. 



445 



XXVII. 

And this same state we won't describe : we 
would 
Perhaps from hearsay, or from recollection ; 
But getting nigh gnrn Dante's "obscure wooi," 

That horrid equinox, that hateful section 
Df human years, that halt-way house, that rude 
Hut, whence wise travellers drive with cir- 
cumspection 
Life 's sad post-horses o'er the dreary frontier, 
01 ags, and looking back to youth, give one 
tear ; — 

XXVIII. 

I won't describe, -that is, if I can help 
Description : and I won't reflect — that is, 

If I can stave off thought, which — as a whelp 
Clings to its teat — sticks to me through the 
abyss 

Of this odd labyrinth ; or as the kelp 
Holds by the rock ; or as a lover's kiss 

Drains its first draught of lips : — but, as I said, 

I won't philosophise, and will be read, 

XXIX. 

Juan, instead of courting courts, was courted, — 
A thing which happens rarely : this he owed 

Much to his youth, and much to his reported 
Valour ; much also to the blood he show'd, 

Like a race-horse ; much to each dress he 
sported, 
Which set the beauty off in which he glow'd, 

As purple clouds beiringe the sun ; but most 

He owed to an old woman and his post. 



He wrote to Spain : — and all his near relations, 
Perceiving he was in a handsome way 

Of getting on himself, and finding stations 
For cousins also, answer' d the same day. 

Several prepared themselves for emigrations ; 
And eating ices, were o'erheard to say, 

f hat with the addition of a slight pelisse,, 

Madrid's and Moscow's climes were of apiece. 

XXXi. 

H.is mother, Donna Inez, finding, too, 

That in the lieu of drawing on his banker, 

Where his assets were waxing rather few, 
He had brought his spending to a handsome 
anchor, — 

Replied, "that she was glad to see him through 
Those pleasures after which wild youth will 
hanker ; 

&.$ the sole sign of man's being in his senses 

Is, learning to reduce his past expenses. 



XXXII 

'' She also recommended him to God, 

And no less to God's Son, as well as Mother 

Warn'd him against Greek worship, whii t 

looks odd smothtt 

In Catholic eyes ; but told him, too, to 

Outward dislike, which don't look well abroad , 
Inform'd him that he had a little brother 

Born in a second wedlock; and above 

All, praised the empress's maternal love. 

XXXIII. 

' She could not too much give her approbation 
Unto an empress, who preferr'd young men 

Whose age, and what was better still, who^e 

nation [then):-- 

And climate, stopp'd all scandal (now and 

4t home it might have given her some vexation ; 
But where thermometers sunk down to ten. 

Or five, or one, or zero, she could never 

Believe that virtue thaw'd before the rivei." 

XXXIV. 

Oh for a. forty -parson power to chant 
Thy praise, Hypocrisy ! Oh for a hymn 

Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, 
Not practise ! Oh for trumps of cherubim 

Or the ear-trumpet of my good old aunt, 
Who, though her spectacles at last grew dim, 

Drew quiet consolation through its hint, 

When she no more could read the pious print. 

XXXV. 

She was no hypocrite at least, poor soul 
But went to heaven in as sincere a way 

As any body on the elected roll, 

Which portions out upon the judgment day 

Heaven's freeholds, in a sort of doomsday 
scroll, 
Such as the conqueror William did repay 

His knights with, lotting others' properties 

Into some sixty thousand new knights' fees. 

XXXVI. 

I can't complain, whose ancestors are there, 
Erneis, Radulphus — eight-and-forty manors 

If that my memory doth not greatly err) 
Were their reward for following Billy's 
banners; [fail 

And though I can't help thinking 'twas scarce 
To strip the Saxons of their hydes { 24 ) like 
tanners ; 

Yet as they founded churches with the produce 

You '11 deem, no doubt, they put it to a good use. 

XXXVII. 

The gentle Juan flourish'd, though at times 
He felt like other plants call'd sensitive, 

Which shrink from touch, as monarchs dc 
from rhymes, 
Save such as Southey can afford to give. 



446 



DON JUAN". 



Perhaps he long'd in bitter frosts for climes 

Iu which the Neva's ice would cease to live 
Before May-day: perhaps, despite his duty, 
In royalty's vast arms he sigh'd for beauty: 

XXXVIII. 

Perhaps — but, sans perhaps, we need not seek 
For causes young or old : the canker-worm 

Will feed upon the fairest, freshest cheek, 
As well as further drain the wither'd form : 

Care, like a housekeeper, brings every week 
His bills in, and however we may storm, 

They must be paid: though six days smoothly 
run, 

The seventh will bring blue devils or a dun. 

XXXIX. 

I don't know how it was, but he grew sick: 
The empress was alarm'd, and her physician 

(The same who physick'd Peter) found the tick 
Of his tierce pulse betoken a condition 

Which augur'd of the dead, however quick 
Itself, and show'd a feverish disposition; 

At which the whole court was extremely 
troubled, [doubled. 

The sovereign shock'd, and all his medicines 

XL. 

Low were the whispers, manifold the rumours : 
Some said he had been poison d byPotemkin ; 

Others talk'd learnedly of certain tumours, 
Exhaustion, or disorders of the same kin; 

Some said 'twas a concoction of the humours 
Which with the blood too readily will claim 
kin ; 

Others again were ready to maintain, 

* 4 T was only the fatigue of last campaign." 

XLI. 

But here is one prescription out of many : 
" Soda? sulphat. 3 v j- 3^ s - Mannas optim. 

Aq. fervent, f. J it's. 3'j- tinct. Sennae 

Haustus " (And here the surgeon came and 
cupp'd him) 

" R Pulv,. Com. gr. iij. Ipecacuanhas" ['em), 
(With more beside if Juan had not stopp'd 

' Bolus Potassse Sulphuret. sumendus, 

Et haustus ter in die oapiendus." 

xlii. 

This is the way physicians mend or end us, 
Secundum artcm: but although we sneer 

Jn health — when ill, we call them to attend us, 
Without the least propensity to jeer: 

While that " hiatus maxime deflendus ' 
To be fill'd up by spade or mattock's near 

Instead of gliding graciously down Lethe, 

We tease mild Baillie, or soft Abernethy. 



XLIII. 

Juan demurr'd at 'his first nitice to 

Quit; and though death had th rotten d an 
ejection, 

His youth and constitution bore him through. 
And sent the doctor 1 in a new direction. 

But still his state wa> delicate: the hue 
Of health but flick'.' 'd with a faint reflection 

Along his wasted chrek, and seem'd to grave 

The faculty — who said that he must travel. 

XLIV. 

The climate was too cold, they said, for him, 
Meridian-born, to bloom in. This opinion 

Made the chaste Catherine look a little grim, 
Who did not like at first to lose her minion* 

But when she saw his dazzling eye wax dim, 
And drooping like an eagle's with dipt pinion, 

She then resolved to send him on a mission, 

But in a style becoming his condition. 

XL v. 

There was just then a kind of a discussion, 

A sort of treaty or negotiation, 
Between the British cabinet and Russian, 

Maintain'd with all the due prevarication 
With which great states such things are apt 
to push on ; 

Something about the Baltic's navigation, 
Hides, train-oil, tallow, and the rights of Thetis, 
Whieh Britons deem their " uti possidetis." 

xr/vi. 
So Catherine, who had a handsome way 

Of fitting out her favourites, conferr'd 
This secret charge on Juan, to display 

At once her royal splendour, and reward 
His services. He kiss'd hands the next day, 

Received instructions how to play his card 
Was laden with all kinds of gifts and honours. 
Which show'd what great discernment, was 
the donor's. 

XLVII. 

Butshe was lucky, and luck 's all. Your queen* 
Are generally prosperous in reigning ; 

Which puzzles us to know wdiat Fortune mcan» 
But to continue : though her years wen 
waning, 

Her climacteric teased her like her teens ; 
And though her dignity brook'd no complain 
ing, 

So much did Juan's setting oflf distress her, 

She could not find at first a fit successor. 

XLVIII. 

But time, the comforter, will come at last; 
And four-and-twenty hours, and twice that 
number 



DON JUAN. 



447 



Of candidates requesting to he placed, 

Made Catherine taste next night a quiet 
slumber : — 

Nut tha. she. meant to fix again in haste, 
Nor did she find the quantity encumber, 

But always choosing with deliberation, 

Kept the place open for their emulation. 

XLIX. 

While this high post of honour's in abeyance, 
For one or two days, reader, we request 

You'll mount with our young hero the convey- 
ance 
Which wafted him from Petersburgh : the best 

Barouche, which had the glory to display once 
The fair czarina's autocratic crest, 

When, a new Iphigene, she went to Tauris, 

Was given to her favourite, and now bore hit, 

L. 

A bull-dog, and a bullfinch, and an ermine, 
All private favourites of Don Juan ; — for 

',Let deeper sages the true cause determine) 
He had a kind of inclination, or 

Weakness, for what most people deem mere 
vermin, 
Live animals: an old maid of threescore 

For cats and birds more penchantne'erdisplay'd, 

Although he was not old, nor even a maid ; — 

LI. 

The animals aforesaid occupied 

Their station : there were valets, secretaries 
In other vehicles ; but at his side 

Sat little Leila, who survived the parries 
He made 'gainst Cossacque sabres, in the wide 

Slaughter of Ismail. Though my wild Muse 
varies , 

Her note, she don't forget the infant girl 
Whom he preserved a pure and living pearl. 

L«- 

Poor little thing! she was as fair as docile, 
And with that gentle, serious character, 
^s rare in living beings as a fossile 
Man, 'midst thy mouldy mammoths, " grand 
Cuvier !" 
Ii! fitted was her ignorance to jostle 

With this o'erwhelming world, where all 
must err • 
But she was yet but ten years old, and therefor 
Was tranquil, though she knew not why or 
wherefore. 

LIII. 

Don Juan loved her, and she loved him, as 
Nor brother, father, sister, daughter love. 

}' cannot tell exactly what it was ; 

He was not yet quite old enough to prove 



Parental feelings, and the other class. 

Call'd brotherly affection, ouid not move 
His bosom, — for he never had a sister: 
Ah ! if he had, how much he would have 
miss'd her ! 

LIV. 

And still less was it sensual ; for besides 
That he was not an ancient debauchee, 

(Who like sour fruit, to stir their veins' salt 
tides, 
As acids rouse a dormant alkali,) 

Although {'twill happen as our planet guides) 
His youth was not the chastest that might be, 

There was the purest Platonism at bottom 

Of all his feelings — only he forgot 'em. 

LV. 

Just now there was no peril of temptation ; 

He loved the infant orphan he had saved, 
As patriots (now and then) may love a nation; 

His pride, too, felt that she was not enslaved 
Owing to him ; — as also her salvation 

Through his means and the church's might 
be paved. [serted, 

But one thing 's odd, which here must be in 
The little Turk refused to be converted. 

LVI. 

'T was strange enough she should retain the 
impression 
Through such a scene of change, and dread, 
and slaughter ; [gression, 

But though three bishops told her the trans- 
She show'd a great dislike to holy water : 
She also had no passion for confession ; 
Perhaps she had nothing to confess : — no 
matter (it — 

Whate'er the cause, the church made little of 
She still held out that Mahomet was a prophet 

LVIT. 

In fact, the only Christian she could bear 
Was Juan ; whom she seem'd to have 
selected \y)ere. 

In place of what her home and friends once 

He naturally loved what he protected : 
And thus they form'd a rather curious pair, 

A guardian green in years, a ward connected 
In neither clime, time, blood. with her defender- 
And yet this want of ties made theirs moie 
tender. 

LVIII. 

They journey'd on through Poland and through 

Warsaw, 

Famous for mines of salt and yokes of iron: 

Through Courland also, which that famous 

farce saw [''Biron."« 2i 

Which gave her dukesthe graceless name of 



448 



DON JUAN. 



T is the same landscape which the modern 

Mars saw, [the siren ! 

Who march'd to Moscow, led by Fame, 

To lose by one month's frost some twenty years 

Oi" conquest, and his guard of grenadiers. 

LIX. 

Let this not seem an anti-climax : — '' Oh ! 

My guard! my old guard!" 126 exclaim'd 
that god of clay. 
Think of the Thunderer's falling down below 

Carotid-artery-cutting Castlereacjh ! 
Alas ! that glory should be chill" d by snow ! 

But should we wish to warm us on our way 
Through Poland, there is Kosciusko's name 
Might scatter fire throu ghice, like Hecla's 
name. 



Senates and sages have condemn d its use- 
But to deny the mob a cordial, which is 
Too often all the clothing, meat, or fuel, 
Good government has left them, seems but 
cruel. 

LXIV. 

Here he embark 'd. and with a flowing sail 
Went bounding for the island of the ft 

Towards which the impatient wind blew hal 
a gale ; [the s<j 

High dash'd the spray, the bows dipp'd in 

And sea-sick passengers turn'd somewhat pale; 
But Juan, season'd, as he well might be. 

By former voyages, stood to watch the skiffs 

Which pass'd, or catch the first glimpse of the 
cliffs. 



From Poland, they came on through Prussia 
Proper, 

And Kbnigsberg 'he capital, whose vaunt, 
Besides some veins of iron, lead, or copper, 

Has latelj been the great Professor Kant. 12 - 
Juan, who cared not a tobacco-stopper 

About philosophy, pursued his jaunt 
To Germany, whose somewhat tardy millions 
Have princes who spur more than their pos- 
tilions. 

LXI. 

And thence through Berlin, Dresden, and the 
like, 

Until he reach'd the castellated Rhine : — 
\ e glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike 

All phantasies, rot even excepting mine; 
A grey wall, a gree i ruin, rusty pike, 

Make my soul pass the equinoctial line 
Between the present and past worlds, and hover 
Upon their airy confine, half-seas over. 

LXII. 

But Juan posted on through Manheim, Bonn, 
Which Drachenfels frowns over like a spectre 

Of the good feudal times for ever gone, 
On which I have not time just now to lee 
ture. 

Fiom thence hewasdrawnonwardstoCologne 
A city which presents to the inspector 

Eleven thousand maidenheads of bone, 

The greatest number flesh hath ever known. I 28 

LXIII. 

From thence to Holland's Hague and Helvoet- 
sluys, 

That water-land of Dutchmen and of ditches, 
Where juniper expresses its best juice, 

Thepoor man ssparkling substitute forriches. 



At length they rose, like a white wall along 
The blue sea's border ; and Don Juan felt — 

What even young strangers feel a little strong 
At the first sight of Albion's chalky belt — 

A kind of pride that he should be among 
Those haughty shopkeepers, who sternly 
dealt 

Their goods and edicts out from pole to pole, 

And made the very billows pay them toll. 

LXVI. 

I've no great cause to love that spot of earth. 
Which holds what might have been the no- 
blest nation ; 

But though I owe it little but my birth, 
I feel a mix'd regret and veneration 

For its decaying fame and former worth. 
Seven years (the usual term of transportation) 

Of absence lay one's old resentments level, 

When a man's country 's going to the devil. 

lxvii. 
Alas ! could she but fully, truly, know 

How her great name is now throughout ab- 
horr'd ; 
How eager all the earth is for the blow 

Which shall lay bare her bosom to the sword; 

How all the nations deem her their worst foe, 

That worse than worst of foes, the once 

adored 

False friend, who held out freedom to mankind, 

Ani now would chain them, to the very 

mind : — 

LXVIII. 

Would she be proud, or boast herself the free, 
Who is but first of slaves? The nations are 

In prison, — but the gaoler, what is he? 
No less a victim to the bolt and bar. 



DON JUAN. 



449 



Is the poor privilege to turn the key 

Upon the captive, freedom ? He s as fai 
From tiie enjoyment of the earth and air 
Who watches o'er the chain, as they who wear. 

LXIX. 

Don Juan now saw Alhion's earliest beauties, 
Thy cliffs, dear Dover ! harbour, and hotel ; 

Thy custom-house, with all its delicate duties; 
Thy waiters running mucks at every bell ; 

Thy packets, all whose passengers are boo'.ies 
To those who upon land or water dwell ; 

And last, not least, to strangers uninstmcted, 

Thy long, long bills, whence nothing is deducted. 

LXX. 

fuan, though careless, young, and magnifique, 
And rich in rubles,diamonds, cash, and credit, 

Who did not limit much his bills per week, 
Yet stared at this a little, though he paid it, — 

His Maggior Duomo, a smart, subtle Greek, 
Before him summ d the awful scroll and 
read it :) 

But doubtless as the air, though seldom sunny, 

Is free, the respiration 's worth the money. 

l.XXl. 

On with the horses ! Off to Canterbury ! 

Tramp, tramp o'er pebble, and splash, splash 
through puddle ; 
Hurrah ! how swiftly speeds the post so merry! 

Not like slow Germany, wherein they muddle 
«iiong the road, as if they went to bury 

Their fare ; and also pause besides, to fuddle, 
With "schnapps" — sad dogs! whom "Hunds- 

fot," or " V.erflucter," 
Affect no more than lightning a conductor. 

LXXII. 

Now there is nothing gives a man such spirits, 
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, 

As going at full speed — no matter where its 
Direction be, so 't is but in a hurry, 

And merely for the sake of its own merits, 
For the less cause there is for all this flurry, 

The greater is the pleasure in arriving 

At the great end of travel — which is driving. 

LXXI1I. 

They saw at Canterbury the cathedral ; 

BlackEdward'shelm, 129 and Becket's bloody 
stone, 130 
Were pointed out as usual by the bedral. 

In the same quaint, uninterested tone : — 
There 's glory again for you, gentle reader ! AL 

Ends in a rusty casque and dubious bone, 
Half-solved into these sodas or magnesias, 
Which form th'it bitter draught, the human 
species. 

30 



LXXIT. 

The effect on Juan was of course sublime : 
H 3 breathed a thousand Cressys, as he s*« 

Thai casque, which never stoop'd except to Time 
Even the boldChurchman's tomb excited aw t 

Who died in the then great attempt to climb 
O'er kings, who nov> at least must talk of 'aw 

Before they butcher. Little Leila gazed. 

And asked why such a structure had been raiser 

LXXV. 

And being told it was "God's nouse," she sail 
He was well lodged, but only wonder d ho* 

He suffer' d Infidels in his homestead, 
The cruel Nazarenes, who had laid low 

His holy temples in the lands which bred 
The true Believers ; — and her infant brow 

Was bent with grief that Mahomet should resigi 

A mosque so noble, flung like pearls to swine 

LXXVI. 

On . on ! through meadows, managed like \ 
garden, 

A paradise of hops and high production: 
For alter years of travel by a band in 

Countries of greater heat, but lesser suction 
A green field is a sight which makes him pardol 

The absence of that more sublime construe 
tion , 
Which mixes up vines, olives, precipices, 
Glaciers, volcanos, oranges, and ii,es. 

LXXVll 

And when I think upon a pot of beer 

But I won't weep ! — and so drive on, postil 
lions ! 

As the smart boys spurr'd fast in their career, 
Juan admired these highways of free millions ; 

A country in all senses the most dear 

To foreigner or native, save some silly ones 

Who "kick against the pricks" just at this 
juncture, 

And for their pains get only a fresh puncture 

LXXVIII. 

What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road ! 

So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving 
The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad 

Air can accomplish, with his wide wing- 
waving. 
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the gor 

Had told his son to satisfy his craving 
With the York mail; — but oi.ward as we roll 
" Surgit amari aliquid" — the toll ! 

LXX1X. 

Alas ! how deeply painful is all payment ! 

Take lives, take wives, take aught excep 
men's purses. 
As Maehiavel shows those in purple raiment, 

Such is the shortest way to general curses. 

2g 



450 



DON JUAN. 



They hate a murderer much less than a claimant 
On tbatsweetore which every body nurses. — 
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, 
Butkeepyourhandsoutof his breeches' pocket: 

LXXX. 

So said the Florentine : ye monarchs, hearken 
To your instructor. Juan now was borne, 

J ust as the day began to wane and darken, 
O'er the high hill, which looks with pride 
or scorn [in 

Toward the great city. — Ye who have a spark 
Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or 
mourn 

According as you take things well or ill ; — 

Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill ! 



The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as 
from 
A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space 
Which well beseem'd the " Devil's drawing- 
room," 
As some have qualified that wondrous place ; 
But Juan felt, though not approaching home, 
As one who, though he were not of the race, 
Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, 
Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied 
t'other. 131 



A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and 
shipping, 

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye 
Could reach, with here and there a sail just 
skipping 

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry 
Of masts ; a wilderness of steeples peeping 

On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ; 
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown 
On a fool's head — and there is London Town ! 

LXXXIII 

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke 
Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour 

Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke 
The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and 
paper) : 

The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke 
Arebow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, 

Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, 

Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear. 

LXXXIV. 

He paused — and so will I ; as doth a crew 
Before they give theirbroadside. By andby, 

My gentle countrymen, we will renew 
Our old acquaintance ; and at least I '11 try 



To tell you truths you wil' not take as true. 

Because they are so; — a male Mrs. Fry, 

With a soft besom will I sweep your halls 

And brush a web or two from off the walls 

ixxxv. 

Oh Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Whj 
Preach to poor rogues? And wherefora 
not begin 

With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try 
Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin. 

To mend the people 's an absurdity, 
A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, 

Unless you make their betters better : — Fy ! 

I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry. 

LXXXVI. 

Teach them the decencies of good threescore ; 

Cure them of tours, hussar and highland 
dresses ; 
Tell them that youth once gone returns n« 
more, [tresses; 

That hired hii7 7as redeem no land's tlis- 
Tell them Sir Wih.am Curtis is a bore, 

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, 
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, 
A fool whose bells have ceased .o ring at all. 

I.XXXVII. 

Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late 
On life's worn conlrnejaded, bloated, sated 

To set up vain pretences of being great, 
'T is not so to be good ; and be it stated. 

The worthiest kings have ever loved iea.^t 

state: [prated 

And tell them But you won't, and I have 

Just now enough; but by and by I'll prattle 

Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle 



Bon 3juan. 



CANTO THE ELEVENTH. 



When Bishop Berke.ey said " there was no 
matter," 132 [sai^ 

And proved it — 't was no matter what 1)6 
They say his system 'tis in vain to baUsc, 

Too subtle for the airiest human head ; 
And yet who can believe it? I would shatter 

Gladly all matters down to stone or lead, 
Or adamant, to find the -world a spirit, 
And wear my head, denying that I wear it 



DON JUAN. 



451 



ii. 

What a sublime discovery t'was to make the 

Universe universal egotism, 

That all's ideal — all ourselves- I'll stake the 

World (be it what you will) that that 'a no 

schism. [some take thee, 

Oh Doubt! — if thou be'st Doubt, for which 

But which I doubt extremely — thou sole 

prism [spirit .' 

Of the Truth's rays, spoil not my draught of 

Heaven's brandy, though our brain can hardly 

bear it. 

in. 
For ever and anon comes Indigestion, 

(Not the most " dainty Ariel") and per- 
plexes 
Our soarings with another sort of question : 
And that which after all my spirit vexes, 
Is, that I find no spot where man can rest 
eye on, 
Without confusion of the sorts and sexes, 
Of beings, stars, and this unriddled wonder, 
The world, which at the worst's a glorious 
blunder — 

IV. 

If it be chance ; or if it be according 

To the old text, still better : — lest it should 

Turn out so, we '11 say nothing 'gainst the 
wording, 
As several people think such hazards rude. 

They're right; our days are too brief for 
affording 
Space to dispute what no one ever could 

Decide, and every body one day will 

Know very clearly — or at least lie still. 

▼. 

And therefore will 1 leave off metaphysical 
Discussion, which is neither here nor there : 

If I agree that what is, is ; then this I call 
Being quite perspicuous and extremely fair; 

The truth is, I've grown lately rather phthi- 
sical ; 
I don't know what the reason is — the air 

Perhaps ; but as I suffer from the shocks 

Of illuess, I grow much more orthodox 

VI. 

The first attack at once proved the Divinity 
(But hat I never doubted, nor the Devil) , 

The next, the Virgin's mystical virginity; 
The third, the usual Origin of Evil ; 

The fourth at once established the whole 
Trinity 
On so uncontrovertible a level, 

That I devoutly wish'd the three were four, 

Ct purpose to believe so much the more. 



To our theme. — The man who has stood on 

the Acropolis, 
And look'd down over Attica; or he 
Who has sail'd where picturesque Constan 
tinople is, 
Or seen Timbuctoo, or hath taken tea [lis 
In small-eyed China's crockery-ware metropo- 

Or sat amidst the bricks of Nineveh, 
May not think much of London's first ap- 



pearance- 



hence 



But ask him what he thinks of it a yeai 

VIII. 

Don Juan had got out on Shooter's Hill ; [vity 
Sunset the time, the place the same decli- 

Which looks along that vale of good and ill 
Where London streets ferment in full ac- 
tivity ; 

While every thing around was calm and still, 

Except the creak of wheels, which on their 

pivct he [hum 

Heard, — and that bee-like, bubbling, busy ♦ 

Of cities, that boil over with their scum : — 



i say, Don Juan, wrapt in contemplation, 
Walk'd on behind his carriage, o'er the 
summit, 
And lost in wonder of so great a nation, 
Gave way to't, since he could not over- 
come it. [station ; 
" And here," he cried, " is Freedom's chosen 
Here peals the people's voice, nor can en. 
tomb it 
Racks, prisons, inquisitions ; resurrection 
Awaits it, each new meeting or election. 



" Here are chaste wives, pure lives ; here 
people pay [dear, 

But what they please ; and if that things be 
'Tis only that they i«.re to throw away 

Their cash, to show how much they have 
a-year. 
Here laws are all inviolate; none lay [clear 
Traps for the traveller; every highway's 
Here — " he was interrupted by a knife. 
With — " Damn your eyes ! your money or 
your life!" — 

XI. 

These freeborn sounds proceeded from four 
pads [loitei 

In ainbush laid, who had perceived him 
Behind his carriage ; and, like handy lads, 
Had seized the luckv hour t<? reconnoitre. 
2 g2 



452 



DON JUAN. 



In which the heedless gentleman v/ho gads 
Upon the road, unless he prove a fighter, 
May find himself within that isle of riches 
Exposed to lose his life as well as breeches. 

xir. 
Juan, who did not understand a word 

Of English, save their shibboleth, " God 
damn !" 
And even that he had so rarely heard, 

He sometimes thought 'twas only their 
" Salam." 
Or " God be with you!" — and 'tis not absurd 

To think so: for half English as I am 
|To my misfortune) never can I say 
T heard them wish " God with you," save 
:hat way ; — 

XIII. 

Juan yet quickly understood their gesture, 

And being somewhat choleric and sudden. 
Drew forth a pocket pistol from his vesture, 

And fired it into one assailant's pudding — 
Who fell, as rolls an ox o'er in his pasture. 

And roar'd out, as he writhed his native 
mud in, 
Unto his nearest follower or henchman. 

Oh Jack! I'mfloor'd by that 'ere bloody 
Frenchman !" 

XIV. 

3n which Jack and his train set off at speed' 
And Juan's suite, late scatter'd at a dis- 
tance, 

Came up, all marvelling at such a deed. 
And offering, as usual, late assistance. 

Juan, who saw the moon's late minion bleed 
As if his veins would pour out his existence, 

Stood calling out for bandages and lint, [Mint. 

And wish'd he had been less hasty with his 

xv. 

" Perhaps," thought he, " it is the country's 
wont 

To welcome foreigners in this way : now 
'.recollect some innkeepers who don't 

Differ, except in robbing with a bow, 
In lieu of a bare blade and brazen front 

But what is to be done? I can't allo\v 
The fellow to lie groaning on the road : 
So take him up ; I '11 help you with the load." 



But ere they could perform this pious duty, 
The dying man cried, " Hold ! I've got my 
gruel ! [booty ; 

Oh ! for a glass of max ' We've miss'd our 
Let me die where I am ! " And as the fuel 



Of life shrunk in his heart, and thick ;jid *c*rtj 
The drops fell from his death-wound, and 

he drew ill 
His breath, — Le from his swelling throat UK tied 
A kerchief, crying, " Give Sal that ." — and 

died. 

XVII. 

f he cravat stain'd with bloody drops fell down 
Before Don Juan's feet: he could not tell 

Exactly why it was before him thrown, 
Nor what the meaning of the man's farewell 

Poor Tom was once a kiddy 133 upon town 
A thorough varmint, and a real swell,* 3 * 

Full flash 135 , all fancy, until fairly diddled, 

His pockets first and then his body riddled 

xvm. 
Don Juan, having done the best he could 

In all the circumstances of the case, 
As soon as " Crowner's quest" allow'd, pursued 

His travels to the capital apace ; — 
Esteeming it a little hard he sheuld 

In twelve hours' time, and very little space, 
Have been obliged to slay a freeborn native 
In self-defence: this made him meditative. 



He from the world had cut off a great man, 
Who in his time had made heroic bustle. 
Who in a row like Tom could lead the van, 
Booze in the ken 136 , or at the spellken ,:i7 
hustle ? [street's ban) 

Who queer a flat? 138 Who (spite of Bow- 
On the high toby-spice !39 so flash the 
muzzle ? [blowing), 14 > 

Who on a lark no with black-eyed Sal (his 
So prime, so swell 142 , so nutty 143 , and so 
knowing ? 

xx. 

But Tom's no more — and so no more of Tom. 

Heroes must die; and by God's blessing 'tis 
Not long before the most of them go home. 

Had! Thamis. hail! Upon thy verge it is 
That Juan's chariot, rolling like a drum 

In thunder, holds the way it can't well miss, 
Through Kennington and all the other " tons.'' 
Which make us wish ourselves in town at 
once ;— 

XXI. 

Through Groves, so call'd as being void of trees, 

(Like lucus from no light) ; through prospects 

named 

Mount Pleasant, as containing nought to please, 

Nor much to climb; through little bo*e» 

framed 



DON JUAN. 



453 



Of bricks, to let the dust in at your ease, 
With "To -be let," upon their doors pro- 
claim'd ; [dise," 

Through " Rows " most modestly call'd" Para- 
W'hichEve might quit without much sacrilice; — 

XXII. 

Through coaches, drays, choked turnpikes, and 
a whirl 

Of wheels, and roar of voices, and contusion ; 
Here taverns wooing to a pint of " purl,"'-* 4 

There mails East flying olf like a delusion ; 
There barbers' blocks with periwigs in curl 

In windows ; here the lamplighter's infusion 
Slowly distill'd into the glimmering glass 
(For in those days we had not got to gas — ) ;M$ 

XXIII. 

Through this, and much, and more, is the ap- 
proach 

Of travellers to mighty Babylon 
Whether they come by horse,or chaise,or coach. 

With slight exceptions, all the ways seem 

one. [croach 

I could say more, but do not choose to en- 

Upon the Guide-book's privilege. The sun 
Had set some time, and night was on the ridge 
Of twilight, as the party cross'd the bridge. 

XXIV. 

That 's rather fine,the gentle sound of Thamis — 
Who vindicates a moment, too, his stream — 
Though hardly heard through multifarious 
" damme's." [gleam, 

The lamps of Westminster's' more regular 
The breadth of pavement, and yon shrine' 
where fame is 
A spectral resident — whose pallid beam 
In shape of moonshine hovers o er the pile- 
Make this a sacred part of Albion's isle. 



The Druids' groves are gone — so much the 
better- [it? — 

Slone-Henge is not — but what the devil is 
But Bedlam still exists with its sage fetter, 

That madmen may not bite you on a visit; 
The Bench too seats or suits full many a debtor; 
The Mansion House too (though some people 
quiz it) 
To me appears a stirT yet grand erection ; 
But then the Abbey 's worth the whole collec- 
tion. 

XXVI. 

The line of lights too up to Charing Cross, 
Pall Mall, and so forth, have a coruscation 

Like gold as in comparison to dross, 

March d with the Continent's illumination 



Whose cities Night by no means deigns to gloss 

The French wero not vet a lamp-lighting 

nation, [lantern, 

And when they grew so- -on their new-found 

Instead of wiclis, they made u wicked man turn. 

XXVII. 

A row of gentlemen along the streets 
Suspended may illuminate mankind, 

As also bonhres made of country seats , 
But the old way is best for the purblind: 

The other looks like phosphorus on sheets, 
A sort of ignis fatuus to the mind, 

Which, though 'tis certain to perplex anr* 
frighten, 

Must burn more mildly ere it can enlighten. 

XXVIII. 

But London 's so well lit, that if Diogenes 

Could recommence to hunt his honext man 
Ami found him not amidst the various proge 
nies 
Of this enormous city's spreading spawn, 
T were not lor wantol lamps to aid his dodg- 
ing his 
Yet undiscover'd treasure. What I can, 
I've done to find the same throughout life'j 

journey, 
But see the world is only one attorney. 

XXIX. 

Over the stones still rattling, up Pall Mall, 

Through crowds and carriages, but waxing 

thinner [sped 

As thunder'd knockers broke the long seal'd 

Oi doors 'gainst duns,and to an early dinnei 
Admitted a small party as night fell, — 

Don Juan, our young diplomatic sinner, 
Pursued his path, and drove past some hotels 
St. James's Palace and StJames's " Hells." 1 -* 1 

XXX. 
They reach' d the hotel : forth stream'd from 
the front door 

A tide oi well-clad waiters, and around 
The mob stood, and as usual several score 

Of those pedestrian Paphians who abound 
In decent London when the daylight's o'er; 

Commodious but immoral, they are found 
Useful, like Malthus,in promoting marriage — 
But Juan now is stepping from his carriage 

XXXI. 

Into one of the sweetest of hotels, 

Especially for foreigners — and mostly 

For those whom favour or whom fortune swpIIs 
And cannot find a bill's small items costly 

There many an envoy either dwelt or dwells 
(The den of many a diplomatic lost lie), 

Until to some conspicuous square they pass, 

And blazoD o'er the door their names in brass 



454 



DON JUAN. 



XXXII. 

uan, whose was a delicate commission, 
Private, though publicly important, bore 
No title to point out with due precision 

The exact affair on which he was sent o'er. 
'Twas merely known, that on a secret mission 

A foreigner of rank had graced our shore, 
Young, handsome, and accomplish'd, who was 
said [head. 

(In whispers) to have turn'd his sovereign's 

XXXIII. 

Some rumour also of some strange adventures 
Had gone before him, and his wars and loves ; 

And as romantic heads are pretty painters, 
And, above all, an Englishwoman's roves 

Into the excursive, breaking the indentures 
Of sober reason, wheresoe'er it moves, 

He found himself extremely in the fashion, 

Which serves our thinking people for a passion. 

XXXIV. 

I don't mean that they are passionless, but quite 

The contrary; but then 'tis in the head; 
Yet as the consequences are as bright 

As if they acted with the heart instead, 
What after all can signify the site 

Of ladies' lucubrations ? So they lead 
In safety to the place for which you start, 

What matters if the road be head or heart? 

XXXV. 

Juan presented in the proper place, 

To proper placemen, every Russ credential; 

And was received with all the due grimace, 
By those who govern in the mood potential, 

Who, seeing a handsome stripling with smooth 

face, [tial) 

Thought (what in state affairs is most essen- 

That they as easily might do the youngster, 

As hawks may pounce upon a woodland song- 
ster. 

XXXVI. 

They err'd, as aged men will do; but by 
And by we'll talk of that; and if we don't 

'Twill be because our notion is not high 
Of politicians and their double front, 

Who live by lies, yet dare not boldly lie: — 
Now what I love in women is, they won't 

Or cun't do otherwise than lie, but do it 

So wdl, the very truth seems falsehood to it. 

XXXVII. 

And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but 
The truth in masquerade; and I defy 

Historians, heroes, lawyers, priests, to put 
A fact without some leaven of a lie. 



The very shadow of true Truth would ehct 

Up annals, revelations, poesy, 
And prophecy — except it should be dated 
Some years before the incidents related. 

XXXVIII. 

Praised be all liars and all lies ! Who now 
Can tax my mild Muse with misanthropy? 

She rings the world's " TeDeum," and her bro\» 
Blushes for those who will not: — but to sigh 

Is idle; let us like most others bow, 
Kiss hands, feet, any part of majesty, 

After the good example of " Green Erin," 

Whose shamrock now seems rather worse for 
wealing. 

XXXIX. 

Don Juan was presented, and his dress 
And mien excited general admiration - 

I don't know which was more admired or 

less; vation, 

One monstrous diamond drew much obser- 

Which Catherine in a moment of " ivresse" 
(In love or brandy's fervent fermentation) 

Bestow'd upon him, as the public learn'd ; 

And, to say truth, it had been fairly earn'd. 

XL. 

Besides the ministers and underlings, 

Who must be courteous to the accredited 
Diplomatists of rather wavering kings. 

Until theirrovalriddle'sfullyread, [springs 
The very clerks, — those somewhat dirty 

Of office, or the house of office, fed 
By foul corruption into streams, — even they 
Were hardly rude enough to earn their pay: 

St LI. 
And insolence no doubt is what they are 

Employ'd for, since it is their daily labour, 
In the dear offices of peace or war ; 

And should you doubt, pray ask of your 
next neighbour, 
When for a passport, or some other bar 

To freedom, he applied (a grief and a bore;, 
If he found not this spawn of taxborn riches, 
Like lap-dogs, the least civil sons of b s. 

XI.II. 

But Juan was received with much " em- 
pressement :" — 
These phrases of refinement I must borrow* 
From our next neighbours' land, where, like 
a chessman, 
There is a move set down for joy or sorrow 
Not only in mere talking, but the press. Man 
In islands is, it seems, downright and 
thorough, 
More than on continents — as if the sea rfree. 
(See Billingsgate) made even the tongue mo« 



DON JUAN. 



455 



XLIII 

And yet the British '"Damme" 's rather Attic, 
Your continental oaths are but incontinent, 

And turn on things which no aristocratic 
Spirit would name, and therefore even I 
won't anent 14 ? 

This subject quote ; as it would be schismatic 

In politesse, and have a sound affronting 

in*t: [daring — 

But " Damme" 's quite ethereal, though too 

Platonic blasphemy, the soul of swearing. 

XLIV. 

For downright rudeness, ye may stay at home ; 

For true or false politeness (and scarce that 
Now) you may cross the blue deep and white 
foam — 

The first the emblem (rarely though) of what 
You leavebehind, the next oftnuch you come 

To meet. However, 't is no time to chat 
On general topics : poets must confine 
Themselves to unity, like this of mine. 

XLV. 

In the great world, — which, being interpreted, 
Meaneth the west or worst end of a city, 

And about twice two thousand people bred 
By no means to be very wise or witty, 

But to sit up while others lie in bed, 

Ami look down on the universe with pity,— 

Juan, as an inveterate patrician, 

Was well received by persons of condition. 

XLVl. 

He was a bachelor, which is a matter 
Of import both to virgin and to bride, 

The former's hymeneal hopes to flatter ; 
And (should she not hold fast by love or 
pride) 

T is also of some moment to the latter ; 
A rib 's a thorn in a wed gallant's side, 

Requires decorum, and is apt to double 

The horrid sin — and what's still worse, the 
trouble. 

XLVIl. 

But Juan was a bachelor — of arts, [and had 
And parts, and hearts : he danced and sung, 

An air as sentimental as Mozart's 

Softest of melodies ; and could be sad 

Or cheerful, without any " flaws or starts," 
Just at the proper time ; and though a lad, 

Had seen the world — which is a curious sight, 

And very much unlike what people write. 

XLVIII. 

Fair virgins blush'd upon him ; wedded dames 
Bloom'd also in less transitory hues ; 

For both commodities dwell by the Thames, 
The painting and the painted ; youth, ceruse, 



Against his heart prefeir'd their usual claims, 

Such as no gentleman can quite refuse : 
Daughters admired his dress, and pious 

mothers 
Inquired his income, and if he had brothers. 

XLIX. 

The milliners who furnish "drapery misses" 148 
Throughout the season, upon speculation 

Of payment ere the honey-moon's last kisses 
Have waned into a crescent's coruscation. 

Thought such an opportunity as this is, 
Of a rich foreigner's initiation, 

Not to be overlook'd — and gave such credit. 

That future bridegrooms swore, and sigh'd, 
and paid it 

L. 

The Blues, that tender tribe, who sigh o'er 
sonnets 

And with the pages of the last Review 
Like the interior of their heads or bonnets, 

Advanced in all their azure's highest hue: 
They talk'd bad French or Spanish, and 
upon its 

Late authors ask'd him for a hint or two ; 
And which was softest, Russian orCastilian? 
And whether in his travels he saw Uion ? 



Juan, who was a little superficial, 

And not in literature a great Drawcansir, 

Examined by this learned and especial [swer; 
Jury of matrons, scarce knew what to an- 

His duties warlike, loving or official, 
His steady application as a dancer, 

Had kept him from the brink of Hippocrene, 

Which now he found was blue instead of 
green. 

LII. 

However, he replied at hazard, with 

A modest confidence and calm assurance. 

Which lent his learned lucubrations pith. 
And pass'd for arguments of good endurance. 

That prodigy, Miss Araminta Smith 

(Who at sixteen translated " Hercules 
Furens" 

Into as furious English), with her best look. 

Set down his sayings in her common-plac* 
book. 



Juan knew several languages — as well 

He might — and brought them up with skill 
in lime 

To save his fame with each accomplish'd belle, 
Who still regretted that he did not rhyme 



456 



DON JUAN. 



Thrre wanted but this requisite to swell 

His qualities (with them) into sublime : 
Lady Fitz-Frisky, and Miss Maevia Mannish, 
B>th long'd extremely to be sung in Spanish. 

LIV. 

However, he did pretty well, and was 

Admitted as an aspirant to all 
The coteries, and, as in Banquo's glass, 

At great assemblies or in parties small, 
He saw ten thousand living authors pass, 

That being about their average numeral ; 
Also the eighty " greatest living poets," 
As every paltry magazine can show it's. 

LV. 

Tn twice five years the " greatest living poet," 
Like to the champion in the fisty ring, 

Is call'd on to support his claim, or show it, 
Although 'tis an imaginary thing. 

Even I — albeit I'm sure I did not know it. 
Nor sought of foolscap subjects to be king, — 

Was reckon'd a considerable time, 

The grand Napoleon of the realms of rhyme. 

LVI. 

But Juan was my Moscow, and Faliero 
My Leipsic, and my Mount Saint Jean 
seems Cain : 

" La Belle Alliance" of dunces down at zero, 
Now that the Lion's fall'n, may rise again; 

But I will fall at least as fell my hero ; 
Nor reign at all, or as a monarch reign ; 

Or to some lonely isle of gaolers go, 

With turncoat Southey for my turnkey Lowe. 



LIX. 

Then there 's my gentle E uphues ; v ho, they >■ •. 

Sets up for being a sort of moral me ; 
He '11 find it rather difficult some day 

To turn out both, or either, it may he. 
Some persons think thatC oleridge hath the s way, 

And Wordsworth has supporters, two or three 
And that deep-mouth'd Boeotian " Savag< 

Landor " 
Has taken for a swan rogue Southey's gander 



John Keats, who was kili'd off by one critique 
Just as he really promised something great 

If not intelligible, without Greek 

Contrived to talk about the gods of late, 

Much as they m|ghthave been supposed to speai, 

Poor fellow ! His was an untoward fate ; 
Tis strange the mind, that very fiery partick. 

Should let itself be snuffd out by an article. 



The list grows long of live and dead pretenders 
To that which none will gain — or none will 
know 

The conqueror at least ; who ere Time renders 
His last award, will have the long grass grow 

Above his burnt-out brain, and sapless cinders 
If I might augur, I should rate but low 

Their chances ; — they're too numerous, like 
the thirty [dirty. 

Mock tvrants, when Rome's annals wax'd but 



Sir Walter reign'd before me ; Moore and 
Campbell [holy, 

Before and after ; but now grown more 
The Muses upon Sion's hill must ramble 

With poets almost Clergymen, or wholly ; 
And Pegasus has a psalmodic amble 

Beneath the very Reverend Rowley Powley, 
Who shoes the glorious animal with stilts, 
A modern Ancient Pistol — by the hilts ! 



This is the literary lower empire, 

Where the pra?torian bands take up the 

matter: — [phire," 

A " dreadful trade," like his who " gathers sam 

The insolent soldiery to soothe and flatter. 
Wrh the same feelings as you'd coaxavamp're. 

Now, were I once at home, and in good satire 
I 'd try conclusions with those Janizaries, 
And show them what an intellectual war is 



Still he excels that artificial hard [vine 

Labourer in the same vineyard, though the 
Yields him but vinegar for his reward.— 

That neutralised dull Doras of the Nine : 
That swarthy Sporus, neither man nor bard ! 

That ox of verse, who ploughs for every 
line : — 
Cambyses' roaring Romans beat at least 

The how'ing Hebrews of Cybele's priest. 



I think I know a trick or two, would turn 
Their flanks ; — but it is hardlv wortn mj 
while, 

With such small gear to give myself concer.i 
Indeed I 've not the necessary bile ; 

Mv natural temper's really aught but stern. 
And even my Muse's worst reproof 's a smile, 

And then she drops a brief and modern curtsy 

And glides away, assured she never hurts yv 



DON JUAN. 



457 



Mv Juan, whom I left in deadly peril 

Amongst live poets <>nd blue ladies, past 
With some small profit through that field so 
sterile [last, 

Being tired in time, and neither least nor 
Left it before he had been treated very ill ; 
And henceforth found himself more gaily 
class'd 
Vmongst the higher spirits of the day, 
L'he sun's true son, no vapour, but a ray. 

i,xv. 
His morns he pass'd in business — which dis 
seeted, 
Was like all business, a laborious nothing 
That leads to lassitude, the most infected 

And Centaur Nessus garb of mortal clothing 
And on our sofas makes us lie dejected, 

And talk in tender horrors of our loathing 
All kinds of toil, save for our country's good — 
Which grows no better, though 'tis time it 
should. 

I.XVI. 

His afternoons he pass'd in visits, luncheons 
Lounging, and boxing; and tbe twilight 
hour 
In riding round those vegetable pum heons 
Call'd " Parks," where their is neither fruit 
nor flower 
•Enough to gratify a bee's slight munchings; 

But after all it is the only " bower," 
'In Moor's phrase) where the fashionable fail 
^an form a slight acquaintance with fresh air. 

XVII. 

'i hen dress, then dinner, then awakes the world ! 

Then glare the lamps, then whirl the wheels, 

then roar [riots huri'd 

Through street and square fast flashing cha- 

Like harness'd meteors; then along the floor 
Chalk mimics painting ; then festoons are 
twiri'd ; 

Then roll the brazen thunders of the door, 
Which opens to the thousand hnppy few 
in earthly paradise of " Or Molu. ' 

LXVIII 

There stands the noble hostess, nor shall sink 
Wi? the three-thousandth curtsy ; there the 
waltz, 

The only dance which teaches girls to think, 
Makes one in love even with its very faults. 

Saloon, room, hall, o'erflow beyond their brink, 
And long the latest of arrivals halts, 

'Midst royal dukes and dames condemn'd to 
climb, 

And gain an inch of staircase at a time. 



I.XIX. 

Thrice happy he auo, after a survey 

Of the g >od company, can win a corner, 

A door that's in or boudoir out of the way, 
Where he may fix himself like small " Jaci 
Horner/' 

And let the Babel round run as it mav, 
And look on as a mourner, or a scorner, 

Or vil approver, or a mere spectator. 

Yawning a little as the night grows later. 

LXX. 

But this won't do, save by and by; and he 
Who like Don Juan, takes an active share 

Must steer with care throug'i all that glittering 

sea [when 

Of gems and plumes and pearls and silks, t». 

He deems it is his proper place to be; 
Dissolving in the waltz to some soft air, 

Or proudlier prancing with mercurial skill, 

WhereiSciencemarsbals forth her own quadrille 

I.XXI. 

Or, if he dance not, but hath higher views 
Upon an heiress or his neighbour's bride, 

Let him take care that that which he pursue* 
Is not at once too palpably described. 

Full many an eager gentleman oft rues 

His haste : impatience is a blundering guide, 

Amongst a people famous i'or reflection, 

Who like to play the fool with circumspection. 

LXXIl. 

But, if you can contrive, get next at supper; 

Or if, forestall'd, get opposite and ogle: — 
Oh, ye ambrosial moments ! always upper 

In mind, a sort of sentimental bogle, 14 9 
Which sits for ever upon memory's crupper 

The ghost of vanish'd pleasures once in 
vogue! Ill 
Can tender souls relate the rise and fall 
Of hopes and fears which shake a single ball 

LXXJII. 

But these precautionary hints can toucn 
Only the common run, who must pursue, 

And watch, and ward; whose plans a word too " 
much 
Or little overturns ; and not the few 

Or many (for the number's sometimes such) 
Whom a good mien, especially if new, 

Or fame, or name, for wit, war, sense, or non 
sense, [since 

Permits whate'er they please, or did not long 

LXXIT. 

Our hero, as a hero, young and handsome, 
Noble, rich, celebrated, and a stranger, 

Like other slaves of course must pay his ransom 
Before he can escape from somucr. dange. 



45S 



DON JUAN. 



s wi'l environ a conspicuous man. Some 

Talk about poetry , and " rack and manger," 

4 rid ugliness, disease, as toil and trouble; — 

1 wish they knew the life of a young noble. 

LXXV. 

They are young, but know not youth — it is 

anticipated ; 

Handsome but wasted, rich without a son ; 

Their vigour in a thousand arms is dissipated ; 

Their cash comes from, their wealth goes to 

a Jew ; 

Both senates see their nightly votes participated 

Between the tyrant's and the tribunes' crew; 

And having voted, dined, drank, gamed, and 

whored, 
The family vault receives another lord. 

LXXV I. 

* Where is the world ? ' cries Young, at 
eighty — " Where 
The world in which a man was born ? " Aias . 
Where is the world of eight years past ? 'Tiuas 
there — 
I look for it — 'tis gone, a globe of glass ! 
Crack'd, shiver'd, vanish'd, scarcely gazed on, 
ere 
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. 
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, 

kings, 
A.nd dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings 

LXXVII. 

Where is Napoleon the Grand? God knows: 
Where little Castlereagh? The devil can tell: 

Where Grattan, Curran, Sheridan, all those 
Who bound the bar or senate in their spell? 

Where is the unhappy Queen, with all her woes ? 

And where the Daughter, whom the Isles 

loved well? [Cents? 

Where are those martyr'd saints the Five per 

And where — oh, where the devil are the Rents? 

LXXVIII. 

Where's "Rrummel? Dish'd. Where's Long 

Pole Wellesley? Diddled. 
Where \s Whitbread"? Romillv ? Where 's 

George the Third? [riddled.) 

Where is his will? 150 (That's not so soon un- 

And where is " Fum " the Fourth, our 

" royal bird ? " 
Gore down, it seems, to Scotland to be fiddled 
Unto by Sawney's violin, we have heard : 
w Caw me, caw thee" — for six montrs hath 

been hatching 
This scene of royal itch and loyal scratching. 



LA.XIX. 

Where is Lord This ? And where my Ladj 
That? 
The Honourable Mistresses and Misses? 
Some laid aside like an old Opera hat, 

Married, unmarried, and remarried: (this is 
An evolution oft perform'd of late.) 

Where are the Dublin shouts — and London 

hisses? [Where 

Where are the Grenvilles ? Turn'd as usual. 

My friends the Whigs? Exactly where they 

were 

LXXX. 

Where are the Lady Carolines and Franceses? 
Divorced or doing thereanenu Ye annals 
So brilliant, where the list of routs and dance* 
is, — 
Thou Morning Post, sole record of the paneh 
Broken in carriages, and all the phantasies 
Of fashion, — say what streams now fill those 
channels? [tinent, 

Some die, some fly, some languish on the Con- 
Because the times have hardly left them out 
tenant. 

LXXXI. 

Some who once set their caps at cautious dukes, 
Have taken up at length with youugei 
brothers : 
Some heiresses have bit at sharpers' hooks: 
Some maids have been made wives, some 
merely mothers ; 
Others have lost their fresh and fairy looks: 

In short, the list of alterations bothers. 
There's little strange in this, but something 
strange is [changes. 

The unusual quickness of these common 

LXXXII. 

Talk not of seventy years as age ; in seven 
I have seen more changes, down from 
monarchs to 
The humblest individual under heaven, 
Than might suffice a moderate ceutnry 
through. 
I knew that nought was lasting, but now even 
Change grows too changeable, without being 
new: 
Nought 's permanent among the human race, 
Except the Whigs not getting into place. 

LXXXIII. 

I have seen Napoleon, who seem'd quite 
Jupiter ; 

Shrink to a Saturn. I have seen a Duke 
(No matter which) turn politician stupider. 

If that can well be, than his wooden look 



DON JUAH, 



459 



But it is time that I should hoist my " blue 
Peter,' [ami shook 

And sail for a new theme: — I have seen — 
To see it — the king hiss'd, and then carest; 
But don't pretend to settle whieh was best. 

LZXX1T. 

J have seen the Landholders without a rap — 

i have seen Joanna Southcote — I have seen 

The House of Commons turn'd to a tax-trap — > 

I have seen that sad affair of the late Queen — 

I have seen crowns worn instead of a fool's 

cap — [mean — 

I have seen a Congress 151 doing all that's 

* have seen some nations like o'erloaded asses, 

Kick off their burthens — meaning the high 

classes. 

r.xxxv. 
1 have seen small poets, and great prosers, and 

Interminable — not eternal — speakers — 
I have seen the funds at war with house and 
land — [squeakers— 

I have seen the country gentlemen turn 
I have seen the people ridden o'er like sand 
By slaves on horseback — I have seen malt 
liquors [Bull- 

Exchanged for " thin potations " by John 
I have seen John half detect himself a fool. — 

LXXXVI. 

But " carpe diem," Juan, " carpe, carpe !" 
To-morrow sees another race as gay 

And transient, and devour'd by the same harpy. 
" Life s a poor player," — then " play out 
the play, 

Ve villains ! " and above all keep a sharp eye 
Much less on what you do than what you say: 

Be hypocritical, be cautious, be 

Not what you seem, but always what you see. 

LXXXVII. 

But how shall I relate in other cantos 
Of what befell our hero in the land, 

Which 'tis the common cry and lie to vaunt as 
A moral country? But I hold my hand — 

For I disdain to write an Atalantis; 
But 't is as well at once to understand 

You are not a moral people, and you know it, 

Without the aid of too sincere a poet. 

LXXXVIII. 

What Juan saw and underwent shall be 
My topic, with of course the due restriction 

Which is required by proper courtesy ; 
And recollect the work is only fiction, 

And that I sing of neither mine nor me, 
Though every scribe, in some slight turn of 
diction, 

Wiii hint allusions never meant. Ne'er doubt 

This — when! speak,! don't hint.hnispeakout. 



LXXXIX. 

Whether he married with the third or fourth 
Offspring of some sage hushand-huntiufl 

countess, 
Or whether with some virgin of more worth 
(I mean in Fortune's matrimonial bounties' 
He took to regularly peopling Earth, 

Of which your lawful awful wedlock foun 
is, — 
Or whether he was taken in for damages, 
For being too excursive in his homages, — 

xc. 
Is yet within the unread events of time. 

Thus far, go forth, thou lay, which I will ba»>> 
Against the same given quantity of rhyme, 
For being as much the subject of attack 
As ever yet was any work sublime, 

By those who love to say that white is blac 1. 
So much the better! — I may stand alone, 
But would not change my fiee thoughts foi . 
throne. 



IBon 3)uan. 



CANTO THE TWELFTH. 152 



Oh all the barbarous middle ages, that 

Which is most barbarous is the middle age 

Of man : it is — I really scarce know what ; 
But when we hover between fool and sa^«. 

And don't know justly what we would be at — 
A period something like a printed page, 

Black letter upon foolscap, while our hair 

Grows grizzled, and we are not what we 
were ; — 

Too old for youth, — too voting, at thirty-five, 

To herd with boys, or hoard with good 
threescore, — 
I wonder people should be left alive; 

But since they are, that epoch is a bore: 
Love lingers still", although 'twere late to wive ; 

And as for other love, the illusion's o'er; 
And money, that most pure imagination, 
Gleams only through the dawn of its creation. 

in. 
O Gold ! Why call we misers miserable ? 

Theirs is the pleasure that can never pall ; 

Theirs is the best bower anchor the chain 

cable [smalL 

Which holds fast other pleasures great and 



400 



DON JUAN. 



Ye who but see the saving man at table, 

And scorn his temperate board, as none at all. 
And wonder how the wealthy eanbe sparing, 
Know not what visions spring from each 
cheese-paring. 



Flash up in ingots from the mine obscure; 
On him the diamond pours its brillia&i 
biaze; [the diet 

While the mild emerald's beam shades down 
Of other stones, to soothe the miser's eyes. 



Love or lust makes man sick, and wine much 
sicker ; 

Ambition rends, and gaming gains a loss; 
But making money, slowly first, then quicker, 

And adding still a little through each cross 

(Which will come over things), beats love or 

liquor, [dross. 

The gamester's counter, or the statesman's 
O Gold ! I still prefer thee unto paper, 
Which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour. 

v. 
Who hold the balance of the world ? Who 
reign 
O'er congress, whether royalist or liberal ? 
Who rouse the shirtless patriots of Spain ? 
(That make old Europe's journals squeak 
and gibber all.) 
Who keep the world, both old and new, in pain 
Or pleasure ? Who make politics run glib- 
ber ail ? + 
The shade of Buonaparte's noble daring? — 
Jew Rothschild, and his fellow-Christian, 
Baring. 

VI. 

Those, and the truly liberal Lafitte, 

Are the true lords of Europe. Every loan 

Is not a merely speculative hit, 

But seats a nation or upsets a throne. 

Republics also, get involved a bit ; 

Columbia's stock hath holders not unknown 

On 'Change; and even thy silver soil, Peru, 

Must get itself discounted by a Jew. 

VII. 

Why call the miser miserable ? as 
1 said before : the frugal life is his 

Which in a saint 01 cynic ever was 

The theme of praise : a hermit -vould not 
miss 

Canonization for the self-same cause 

And wherefore blame gaunt wealth's au- 
sterities ? [trial ; — 

Because, you '11 say, nought cails for such a 

Then there's more merit in his self-denial. 



He is your only poet ; — passion, pure, 

And sparkling on from heap to heap,displays, 

Posscss'd, the ore, of which mere hopes allure, 
Nations athwart the deep: the golden rays 



The lands on either side are his : the shu 
From Ceylon, Inde, orfarCathay 153 , unloads 

For him the fragrant produce of each trip; 
Beneath his cars of Ceres groan the roads, 

And the vine blushes like Aurora's lip ; 
His very cellars might be kings' abodes ; 

While he, despising every sensual call, 

Commands — tho intellectual lord of all. 

x. 

Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind, 
To build a college, or to found a race, 

A hospital, a church, — and leave behind 
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face. 

Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind 
Even with the very ore which makes them 
base ; 

Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation, 

Or revel in the joys of calculation. 

XI. 

But whether all, or each, or none of these 

May be the hoarder's principle of action, 
The fool will call such mania a disease : — 
What is his own ? Go — look at each trans- 
action, [ease 
Wars, revels, loves — do these bring men more 
Than the mere plodding through each 
" vulgar fraction?" 
Or do they benefit mankind? Lean miser ! 
Let spend thrifts' heirs inquire of yours — who 's 
wiser ? 

XII. 

How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming 
chests 
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins 
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests 
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage 
shines, 
But) of fine unclipt gold, where dully rests 
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque 
confines, 
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp:— 
Yes! ready money is Aladdir s lamp. 

XIII. 

Love rules the camp, the court, the grove, — 
for love '"the bard ; 

Is heaven, and heaven is love:" — so st'ng» 
Which it were rather difficult to prove 
(A thing with poetry in general hard) 



DON JUAN. 



461 



Perhups there may be something in " the 

grove," [parcel 

At least it rhymes to " love :" but I 'm prc- 

To doubt(no less than landlords ol their rental) 

If 'courts" and "camps" be quite so sentimental. 

XIV. 

B it if Love don't, Casli does, and Cash alone : 

Cash rules the grove.and lellsittoo besides; 

Wiuaut cash, camps were thin, and courts were 

none ; [brides." 

Without cash, Malthus tells you — " take no 
So Cash rules Love the ruler, on his own 

High ground, as virgin Cynthia sways the 

tides: [say honey 

And as for " Heaven being Love," why not 

Is wax? Heaven is not Love, 't is Matrimony. 

xv. 
Is not all love prohibited whatever, 

Excepting marriage? which is love, no doubt, 
After a sort; but somehow people never 

With the same thought the two words haTe 
help'd out: 
Lovemay exist with marriage, and should ever, 

And marriage also may exist without ; 
But love sans bans is both a sin and shame, 
And ought to go by quite another name. 

XVI. 

tyow if the " court," and " camp," and "grove," 
be not 

Recruited all with Constant married men, 
Who never coveted their neighbour's lot, 

I say that line 's a lapsus of the pen ; — 
Strange too in my *' buon camerado ' Scott, 

So celebrated for his morals, when 
My Jeffrey held him up as an example 
To me ; — of which these morals are a sample. 

XVII. 

Well, if I don't succeed, I have succeeded, 
And that 's enough; succeeded in my youth, 

The only time when much success is needed: 
And my success produced what I, in sooth, 

Cared most about; it need not now be 

pleaded — [truth, 

Whate'er it was, 'twas mine ; I 've paid, in 

Of late, the penalty of such success, 

But have not learn' d to wish it any less. 

XVIII. 

That suit in Chancery, — which some persons 
plead 

In an appeal to the unborn, whom they, 
in the faith of their procreative creed, 

Baptize posterity, or future clay, — 
To me seems but a dubious kind of reed 

To l^an on for support in airy way ; 
Jjince odds are that posterity will know- 
No more of them, than they of her, 1 trow 



XIX. 

Why, I 'm posterity — and so a:*e you : 

And whom do we remember? Not a bundled 
Were every memory written down all true, 
The tenth or twentieth name would be but 
blunder'd; 
Even Plutarch's Lives have bulpick'd out afew 
And 'gainst those few your annalists huvt 
thunder'd; 
And Mitford in the nineteenth century 
Gives, with Greek truth, the good old Greek 
the lie. 

xx. 
Good people all, of every degree, 

Ye gentle readers and ungentle writers, 
In this twelfth Canto 'tis my wish to be 

As serious as if I had for inditers 
Malthus and Wilberforce : — the last set free 

The Negroes, and k worth amillion lighters; 
While Wellington has but enslaved the Whites, 
And Malthus does the thing gainst which he 
writes. 

XXI. 

I 'm serious — so are all men upon paper ; 

And why should I not form my speculation, 
And hold up to the sun my little taper? 

Mankind just now seem wrapt in meditation 
On constitutions and steam-boats ol vapour ; 

While sages write against all procreation, 
Unless a man can calculate his means 
Of feeding brats the moment his wife weans. 



That 's noble ! That 's romantic ! For my part 
I think that "Philo-genitiveness"is — 

(Now here 's a word quite alter my own heart, 
Though there's a shorter a good deal than this. 

If that politeness set it not apart ; 

B ut L 'm resolved to say nought that *s amiss) — 

I say, methinks that " Philo-genitiveness" 154 

Might meet from men a little more forgiveness, 

xxiii. 
And now to business. — my gentle Juan ! 

Thou art in London — in that pleasant place. 
Where every kind of mischief's daily brewing, 

Which can await warm youth in its w?M race. 
'T is true, that thy career is not a new one ; 

Thou art no novice in the headlong chase 
Of early life ; but this is a new land, 
Which foreigners can never understand. 

XXIV. 

What with a small diversity of climate, 
Of hot or cold, mercurial or sedate, 

1 could send forth my mandate like a prima 
Upon the rest of Europe's social state , 



462 



DON JUAN. 



But thou art the most difficult to rhyme at, 
Great Britain, which the Muse may penj- 
trate. 
All countries have their " Lions," but in thee 
There is but one superb menagerie. 



Howe'er our friend Don Juan might coir.mant 
Himself for rive, four, three, or two years 
space. 
Would be much better taught beneath the eva 
Of peeresses whose follies had ruu dry. 



But I am sick of politics. Begin, 
" Paulo Majora." Juan, undecided 

Amongst the paths of being " taken in, 
Above the ice had like a skater glided : 

When tired of play, he flirted without sin 
With some of those fair creatures who have 
prided 

Themselves on innocent tantalisation, 

And hate all vice except its reputation. 

XXVI. 

But these are few, and in the end they make 
Some devilish escapade or stir, which shows 
That even the purest people may mistake 
Their way through virtue's primrose path* 
of snows ; 
And then men stare, as if a new ass spake 
To Balaam, and from tongue to ear o'er- 
flows 
Quicksilver small talk, ending (if you note it) 
With the kind world's amen — " Who would 
Lave thought it?" 

XXVTI. 

The little Leila, with her orient eyes, 

And taciturn Asiatic disposition, (surprise, 

(Which saw all western things with small 
To the surprise of people of condition, 

Who think that novelties are butterflies, 
To be pursued as food for inanition,) 

Her charming figure and romantic history 

Became a kind of fashionable mystery 

xxvui. 

The women much divided — as is usual 
Ami ngst the sex in little things or great. 

Think not, fair creatures, that I mean to 
nbuse you all — 
I have always liked you better than I state : 

Since I've grown moral, still I must accuse 
you all 
Of being apt to talk at a great rate , 

And now there was a general sensation 

Amongst you, about Leila's education 



In one point only were you settled — and 
You had reason ; 'twas that a young child 
of grace. 

K* beautiful as her own native land, 
And far away, the last bud of her race, 



So first there was a generous emulation, 
And then there was a general competition. 

To undertake the orphan's education. 
As Juan was a person of condition, 

It had been an affront on this occasion 
To talk of a subscription or petition , 

But sixteen dowagers, ten unwed she sages, 

Whose tale belongs to " Hallam's Middle 
Ages," 

XXXI. 

And one or two sad, separate wives, without 
A fruit to bloom upon their withering 
bough — 
Begged to bring up the little girl, and " out" — 
■ For that's the phrase that settles all things 
now, 
Meaning a virgin's first blush at a rout, 

And all her points as thorough- bred to show 
And I assure you, that like virgin honey 
Tastes their first season (mostly if they have 
money). 

XXXII. 

How all the needy honourable misters, 

Each out-at-elbow peer, or desperate dandy, 

The watchful mothers, and the careful sisters, 

(Who, by the by, when clever, are more 

handy Cglisters," 

\t making matches, where " 'tis gold that 
Than their he relatives,) like flies o'er candy 

Buzz round " the Fortune" with their busy 
battery, [tery ' 

To turn her head with waltzing and with flat 

XXXIII. 

Each aunt, each cousin, hath her speculation , 
Nay, married dames will now and then 
discover 
Such pure disinterestedness of*passion, 

I 've known them court an heiress for their 

lover. [tion, 

' Tanta^ne !" Such the viitues of high sta 

Even in the hopeful Isle, whose outlet's 

" Dover!" [cares 

While the poor rich wretch, object of thesa 

Has cause to wish her sire had ..ad male heirs 

XXXIV. 

Some are soon bagg'd, and some reject threw 
dozen. 
Tis fine to see them scattering refusals 



DON JUAN. 



463 



And wild dismay o'er every angry cousin 

(Friends (if the party), who begin accisals, 

Such :is — " Unless Miss (Blank) meant to 

have chosen 

Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals 

To his billets ? Why waltz with him? Why, 

I P ra 7> 
Look yes last night, and yet say no to-day? 

XXXV. ♦ 

" Why?— Why?— Besides, Fred really was 
attach'd ; [without: 

'T was not her fortune — he has enough 
The time will come she '11 wish that she had 
snatch'd 
So good an opportunity, no doubt: — > 
But the old marchioness some plan had 
hatch'd, 
As I *11 tell A urea at to-morrow's rout : 
And after all poor Frederick may do better — 
Pray did you see her answer to his letter?" 

XXXVI, 

Smart uniforms and sparkling coronets 

Are spurn'd in turn, until her turn arrives, 
After male loss of time, and hearts, and bets 

Upon the sweepstakes for substantial wives; 
And when at last the pretty creature gets 
'Some gentleman, who fights, or writes, or 
drives, 
It soothes the awkward squad of the rejected 
To find how very badly she selected. 

XXXVII. 

For sometimes they accept some long pursuer, 
Worn out with importunity ; or fall 

!But here perhaps the instances are fewer) 
To the lot of him who scarce pursued at all. 

A hazy widower turn'd of forty 's sure 
(If 'tis not vain examples to lecall) 

Todrawahigh prize: now, howe'erhegot her, I 

See nought more strange in this than t' other 
lottery. 

XXXVIII. 

1, for my part — (one " modem instance " more, 
"True, 'tis a pity — pity 'tis, 'tis true") 

Was chosen from out an amatory score, 
Albeit my years were less discreet than few ; 

Rut though I also had reform'd before 

Those became one who soon were to be two, 

I '11 not gainsay the generous public's voice, 

That the young lady made a monstrous choice. 

XXXIX. 

Oh, pardon my digression — or at least 
Peruse ! 'T is always with a moral end 

That I dissert, like grace before a feast : 
For like an aged aunt or tiresome friend, 



A rigid guardian, or a zealous priest 

My Muse by exhortation means to mend 
Ail people, at all times, and in most places, 
Which puts my Pegasus to theie grave pace* 

XL. 

But now I 'm going to be immoral ; now 
I mean to show things really as they are, 

Not as they ought to be : for I avow, 

That till we see what's what in fact, we're fai 

From much improvement with that virtuou* 
plough 
■Which skims the surface.leaving scarce a scat 

Upon the black loam long manured by Vice, 

Only to keep its corn at the old price. 

XLI. 

But first of little Leila we '11 dispose ; 

For like a day-dawn she was young and pure 
Or like the old comparison of snows, 

Which are more pure than pleasant to be su-e 
Like many people every body knows, 

Don Juan was delighted to secure 
A goodly guardian for his infant charge, 
Who might not profit much by being at large 

XLII. 
Besides, he had found out he was no tutor 

(I wish that others would find out the same) ; 
And rather wish'd in such things to stand neuter 

For silly wards will bring their guardians 
blame : 
So when he saw each ancient dame a suitor 

To make his little wild Asiatic tame, 
Consulting " the Society for Vice 
Suppression," Lady Pinchbeck was his choice 

XLIII. 

Olden she was — but had been very young ; 

Virtuous she was— and had been,I believe 
Although the world has such an evil tongue 

That but my chaster ear will not receive 

An echo of a syllable that 's wrong : 

In fact, there 's nothing makes me so mm I 
grieve, 
As that abominable tittle-tattle, 
Which is the cud eschew 'd by human cattle. 



Moreover I've remark'd (and I was once 
A slight observer in a modest way), 

And so may every one except a dunce, 
That ladies in their youth a little gav, 

Besides their knowledge of the world, and 
sense 
Of the sad consequence of going astrav. 

Are wiser in their warnings 'gainst the woe 

Which the mere passionless can never know. 



404 



DON JUAN. 



While the harsh prude indemnifies her virtue 
By railing at the unknown and envied 
passion, 

Seeking far less to save you than to hurt you, 

Or, what's still worse, to put you out of 

fashion,— [you, 

The kinder veteran with calm words will court 
Entreating you to pause before you dash on ; 

Expounding and illustrating the riddle 

Of epic Love's beginning, end, and middle. 

XL VI. 

Now whether it be thus, or that they are 
stricter, 

As better knowing why they should be so, 
t think you'll find from many a family picture, 

That daughters of such mothers as may know 
The world by experience rather than by lec- 
ture, [Show 

Turn out much better for the Smithriekl 
Of vestals brought into the marriage mart, 
Than those bred up by prudes without a heart. 

XLVII. 

I said that Lady Pinchbeck had been talk'd 
about— [pretty ? 

As who has not, if female, young, and 
But now no more the ghost of Scandal stalk'd 
about; 
She merely was deem'd amiable and witty 
And several of her best bon-mots were hawk'd 
about : 
Then she was given to charity and pity, 
And pass'd (at least the latter years of life) 
For being a most exemplary wife. 

XLVIII. 

High in high circles, gentle in her own, 
She was the mild reprover of the young, 

Whenever— which means every day— they'd 
shown 
An awkward inclination to go wrong. 

The quantity of good she did 's unknown, 
Or at the least would lengthen out my song: 

In brief, the little orphan of the East 

Had raised an interest inher which increased. 

XLIX. 

Juan, too, was a sort of favourite with her, 
Because she thought him a good heart at 
bottom, 

A little spoil'd, but not so altogether ; [him, 
Which was a wonder, if you think who got 

And how he had been toss'd, he scarce knew 
whither : 
Though this might ruin others, itdid not him 

At least entirely — for he had seen too many 

Changes in youth, to be surprised at any. 



And these vicissitudes tell best in youtt ; 

For when they happen at a riper age, 
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsoo'ji, 

And wonder Providence is not more sage 
Adversity is the first path to truth : 

He who hath proved war, storm, oa 
woman's rage, 
"Vroether his winters be eighteen or eighty, 
Hath won the experience which is deem'd s< 
weighty. 

LI. 
How far it profits is another matter. — 

Our hero gladly saw his little chaige [ter 
Safe with a lady, whose last grown-up daugh- 

Being long married, and thus set at large, 
Had left all the accomplishments she taught hei 

Tobetransmitted.liketheLordMayor's barge. 
To the next comer ; or — as it will tell 
More Muse-like — like to Cytherea's shell. 

MI. 
I call such things transmission : for there is 

A floating balance of accomplishment, 
Which forms a pedigree from Miss to Miss, 

According as their minds or backs are bent. 
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss 

Of metaphysics ; others are content 
With music ; the most moderate shine as wits , 
While others have a genius tum'd for fits. 

LIU. 

But whether fits, or wits, or harpsichords, 
Theology, fine arts, or finer stays, 

May be the baits for gentlemen or lords 
With regular descent, in these our days, 

The last year to the new transfers its hoards ; 
New vestals claim men's eyes with the same 
praise 

Of "elegant" et cetera, in fresh batches — 

All matchless creatures,and yet bent on matches 

LIV. 

But now I will begin my poem. 'T is 
Perhaps a little strange, if not quite new, 

That from the first of Cantos up to this 

I 've not begun what we have to go through 

These first twelve books are merely flourishes 
Preludios, trying just a string or two 

Upon my lyre, or making the pegs sure : 

And when so, you shall have the overture. 

LV. 

My Muses do not care a pinch of rosin 

About what'scalledsuccess.or not succeeding 

Such thoughts are quite below the strain tLv» 
have chosen : 
'T is a" great moral lesson" they art, reading 



DON JUAN. 



465 



I thought, at setting off, about two dozen 

Cantos would do ; but at Apollo's pleading, 
tf that my Pegasus should not be foundcr'd, 
I think to canter gently through a hundred. 



Don Juan saw that microcosm on stilts, 

Yclept the Great World ; lor it is the least, 

Although the highest: but as swords have hilts 
By which their powerof mischief isincreased, 

When man in battle or in quarrel tilts, 

Thus the low world, north, south, or west, 
or east, 

Must still obey the high — which istheirhandle, 

Their moon, their sun, their gas, their farthing 
candle. 

LVII. 

He had many friends who had many wives, 
and was 

Well look'd upon by both, to that extent 
Of friendship which you may accept or pass, 

It does nor good nor harm; being merely 
meant 
To keep the wheels going of the higher class, 

And draw them nightly when a ticket 's sent: 
And what with masquerades, and fetes.and balls, 
For the first season such a life scarce palls. 

LVIII. 

A young unmaivied man, with a good name 
And fortune, has an awkward part to play; 

For good society is but a game, 

" The royal game of Goose," as I may say, 

Where every body has some separate aim, 
An end to answer, or a plan to lay — 

The single ladies wishing to be double, 

The married ones to save the virgins trouble. 



I don't mean this as general, but particular 
Examples may be found of such pursuits: 

Though several also keep their perpendicular 
Like poplars, with good principles for roots ; 

Yet many have a method more reticular — 
" Fishers for men," like sirens with soft lutes : 

For talk six times with the same single lady, 

Ami you may get the wedding dresses ready. 



Perhaps you 11 have a letter from the mother, 
To say her daughter's feelings arc trepann'd ; 

Perhaps you '11 have a visit from the brother, 
All strut, and stays, and whiskers, to demand 

What " yourintentions are?" — Oneway orother 
It seems the virgin's heart expects your hand: 

And between pity for her case and yours. 

You'll add to Matrimony's list of cure. 



I 'ye known a dozen weddings made even thut 
And some of them high names: I have uhsc 
known 

Young men who — though they hated to discuss 
Pretensions which they never dream d to 
have shown — 

Yet neither frighten 'd by a femah fuss, 
Nor by mustachios moved, were let alone, 

And lived, as did the broken-hearted fair, 

In happier plight than if they form'd a pair. 



There's also nightly, to the uninitiated, 
A peril — not indeed like love or marriage, 

But not the less for this to be depreciated: 
It is — I meant and mean not to disparage 

The show of virtue even in the vitiated — 
It adds an outward grace unto their carriage — 

But to denounce the amphibious sort of harlot 

" Couleur de rose," who 's neither white nor 
scarlet. 

LXIII. 

Such is your cold coquette, who can'tsay " No," 
And won't say " Yes," and keeps you on 
and off-ing 

On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow — 

Then sees your heart wreck d, wLh an inwaru 
scoffing. 

This works a world of sentimental woe, 

Ands>ends new Werters yearly to their coffin; 

But yet is merely innocent flirtation, 

Not quite adultery, but adulteration. 

LXIV. 

" Ye gods, I grow a talker ! " Let us prate. 

The next of oerils, though I place it sternest. 
Is when, without regard to " church or state," 

A wife makes or takes love in upright earnest. 
Abroad, such things decide few women's fate — 

(Such, early traveller ! is the truth thou 
learnest) — 
But in old England, when a young bride errs 
Poor thing ! Eve's was a trifling case to hers. 

LXV. 

For 'tis a low, newspaper, humdrum, lawsuit 

Country, where a young couple of the same 

ages 

Can't form a friendship,but the world o'erawesit. 

Then there 's the vulgar trick of those d — d 

damages! 

A verdict — grievous foe to those who cause it !— 

Forms a sad climax to romantic homages: 
Besides those soothing speeches of the pleaders 
And evidences which regale all readers 
31 2h 



466 



DON JUAN. 



LXVI. 

But they who blunder thus are raw beginners; 

A little genial sprinkling of hypocrisy 
Has saved the lame of thousand splendid sinners, 

The loveliest oligarchs of our gynocracy ; 
You may see such at all the balls and dinners, 

Among the proudest of our aristocracy, 
So gentle, charming, charitable, chaste — 
And all by having tact as well as taste. 

LXVIl. 

Juan, who did not stand in the predicament 

Of a mere novice, had one safeguard more ; 

For he was sick — no, 'twas not the word sick 

I meant — 

But he had seen so much good love before, 

That he was not in heart so very weak ; — 1 

meant 

But thus much, and no sneer against the shore 

Of white cliffs, white necks, blue eyes, bluer 

stockings, [knockings. 

Tithes, taxes, duns, and doors with double 

LXVIII. 

But coming young from lands and scenes ro- 
mantic, [Passion, 

Where lives, not lawsuits, must be risk'd for 
And Passion s self must have a spice of frantic, 

Into a country where 'tis hall a fashion, 
Seem'd to him half commercial, half pedantic, 

Howe'er he might esteem this moral nation: 
Besides (alas ! his taste— forgive and pity !) 
At first he did not ihink the women pretty. 

LXIX. 

[ say at first — for he found out at last, 

But by degrees, that they were fairer far 
Than the more glowing dames whose lot is cast 

Beneath the influence of the eastern star. 
A further proof we should not judge in haste; 

Yet inexperience could not be his bar 
To taste : — the truth is, if men would confess, 
That novelties please less than they impress. 

ux. 
Though travelld, I have never had the luck to 

Trace up those shullling negroes, Nile or 
Niger, 
To that impracticable place, Timbuctoo, 

Where Geography finds no one to oblige her 
With such a chert as may be safely stuck to — 

For Europe ploughs in A trie like " bospiger :" 
But if 1 had been at Timbuctoo. there 
No doubt I should be told that black is fair. 

LXXI. 

It is. I will not swear that black is white ; 

But I suspect in fact that white is black, 
A.nd the whole matter rests upon eye-sight. 

Ask a blind man, the best judge. You 11 
ntlHck 



Perhaps this new position — but I'm right; 

Or if I 'm wrong, I '11 not be ta'en aback :— 
He hath no morn nor night, but all is dark 
Within; and what seest thou ? A dubious spark 

LXXII. 

But I'm relapsing into metaphysics, 

That labyrinth, whose clue is of the same 

Construction as your cures forhecticphthisici 
Those bright moths fluttering round a dying 
flame; 

And this reflection brings me to plain physics, 
And to the beauties of a foreign dame, 

Compared with those of our pure pearls ot 
price, 

Those polar summers, all sun, and some ice 

LXXII I. 

Or say they are like virtuous mermaids, whose 

Beginnings are fair faces, ends mere fishes; — 
Not that there's not a quantity of those 

Who have a due respect tor their own wishes. 
Like Russians rushing from hot baths to snows 

Are they, at bottom virtuous even when 
vicious : 
They warm into a scrape, but keep of course, 

As a reserve, a plunge into remorse. 

isxrr. 

But this has nought to do with their outsides. 

I said that Juan did not think them prett) 
At the first blush ; for a fair Briton hides 

Half her attractions — probably from pity— 
And rather calmly into the heart glides. 

Than storms it as a foe would take a city ; 
But once there (if you doubt this, prithee try) 
She keeps it for you like a true ally. 

LXXV. 

She cannot step as does an Arab barb, 
Or Andalusian girl from mass returning, 

Nor wear as gracefully as Gauls her garb. 
Nor in her eye Ausonia's glance is burning; 

Her voice, though sweet, is not so fit to warb- 
le those bravuras (which I still am learning 

To like, though I have been seven vears in 
Italy, Ctily) ; — 

And have, or had, an ear that served me pret- 

LXXVI. 

She cannot do these things, nor one or two 
Others, in that off-hand and dashing style 

Which takes so much — to give the devil his 
due; 
Nor is she quite so ready with her smile, 

Nor settles all things in one interview. 

(A thing approved as saving time and 
toil; — [trouble 

But though the soil may give you time ami 

W. 11 cultivated, it will render double. 



DON JUAN 



4G7 



LXXVII. 

And if in fact she takes to a " grande passion," 
It is a very serious thing indeed : 

Nine limes in ten 't is but caprice or fashion, 
Coquetry, or a wish to take the lead, 

The pride of a mere child with a new sash en, 
Or wish to make a rival's bosom bleed : 

But the tenth instance will be a tornado, 

For there 's no saying what they will or may do. 
LXXVII I. 

The reason s obvious; if there 's an eclat, 
They lose their caste at once, as do the 
Pari as ; 

And when the delicacies of the law 

Have fill'd their papers with their comments 
various, 

Society, that china without flaw, [Marius, 
(The hypocrite !) will banish them like 

To sit amidst the ruins of their guilt: 

For Fame's a Carthage not so soon rebuilt. 

LXXIX. 

Perhaps this is as it should be; — it is 

A comment on the Gospel's " Sin no more, 
4nd be thy sins forgiven :" — but upon this 

I leave the saints to settle their own score. 
Abroad, though doubtless they do much amiss, 

An erring woman linds an opener door 
For her return to Virtue — as they call 
That lady, who should be at home to all. 

LXXX. 
For me, I leave the matter where I find it, 

Knowing that such uneasy virtue leads 
People some ten times less in fact to mind it, 

And care but lor discoveries and not deeds. 
And as for chastity, you '11 never bind it 

By all the laws the strictest lawyer pleads, 
But aggravate the crime you have not pre- 
vented, [repented. 
By rendering desperate those who had else 

LXXXI. 

But Juan was no casuist, nor had ponder 'd 
Upon the moral lessons of mankind : 

Besides, he had not seen of several hundred 
A lady altogether to his mind. 

A little "blase" — 'tis not to be wonder'd 
At, that his heart had got a tougher rind: 

And though not vainer from his past success, 

No doubt his sensibilities were less. 

LXXXII. 

He **lso had been busy seeing sights — 
The Parliament and all the other houses ; 

Had sat beneath the gallery at nights, 
To hear debates whose thunder roused (not 
rottae$) 



The world to gaze upon those northern lights 
Which flash'd as far as where the inusk-buli 

browses ; 
He had also stood at times behind the throne — 
But Grey 155 was not arrived, and Chaihan 

gone. 156 

LXXXIII. 

He saw, however, at the closing session, 
That noble sight, when rea% free the nation 

A king in constitutional possession 

Of such a throne as is the proudest station, 

Though despots knowitnot — tillthe*progre.ssion 
Of freedom shall complete their education. 

'T is not mere splendour makes the show augusi 

Tc eye or heart — it is the people's trust. 

LXXXIV. 

There, too, he saw (whate'er he may be now) 

A Prince, the prince of princes at the time, 
With fascination in his very bow, 

And full of promise, as the spring of prime. 
Though royalty was written on his brow, 

He had then the grace, too.rare in ev ery clime. 
Of being, without alloy of fop or beau, 
A finish'd gentleman from top to toe. 

LXXXV. 
And Juan was received, as hath been said, 

Into the best society : and there 
Occurr'd what often happens, I 'm afraid, 

However disciplined and dehonnaire : — 
The talent and good humour he display'd, 

Besides the mark'd distinction of his air, 
Exposed him, as was natural, to temptation, 
Even though himself avoided the occasion. 

LXXXVI. 

But what, and where, with whom, and when, 
and why, 
Is not to be put hastily together; 
And as my object is morality 

(Whatever people say), I don't know whethei 
I'll leave a single reader's eyelid dry, 

But. harrow up his feelings, till thevwithei, 
And hew out a huge monument of pathos, 
As Philip's son proposed to do with Athos. 

lxxxvii. 
Here the twelfth canto of our introduction 

Ends. When the body of the book 's begun. 
You '11 find it of a different construction 
From what some people say 'twill be when 
done: 
The plan at present's simply in concoction. 

I can't oblige you, reader, to read on ; 
That's your affair, not mine: a real spirit 
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to ben. 
it. 
2h 2 



468 



DON JUAN. 



LXXXVIII. 

And if my thunderbolt not always rattles, 
Remember, reader! yon have had before, 

The worst of tempests and the best of battles, 
That e'er were brew'd from elements or gore, 

Besides the most sublime of — Heaven knows 
what else: 
An usurer could scarce expect much more — 

But my best canto, save one on astronomy, 

Will turn upon " political economy." 

LXXXIX. 

That is your present theme for popularity . 

Now that the public hedge hath scarce a 
stake, 
It grows an act of patriotic charity, 

To show ihe people the best way to break. 
My plan (but I, if but for singularity, 

Reserve it) will be very sure to take. 
Meantime, read all the national-debt sinkers, 
And tell me what you think of our great 
thinkers. 



Bon 3Suan. 



CANTO THE THIRTEENTH. 



I now mean to be serious ; — it is time, 

Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too 
serious. 
A jest at Vice by Virtue 's call'd a crime. 

And critically held as deleterious : 
Besides, the sad 's a source of the sublime. 

Although when long a little apt to weary us; 
And therefore shall my lay soar high and solemn, 
As an old temple dwindled to a column. 

II. 
The Lady Adeline Amundeville 

('T is an old Norman name, and to be found 
In pedigrees, by those who wander still 

Along the last fields of that Gothic ground) 
Was high-born, wealthy by her father's will, 

And beauteous, even where beauties most 
abound. 
In Britain — which of course true patriots find 
The goodliest soil of body and of mind. 

in. 
I '11 not gainsay them ; it is not my cue ; 

I'll leave them to their taste, no doubt the 
best* 
An eye's an eye, and whether black or blue, 

Is no great matter, so tis in request, 



*T is nonsense to dispute about a hue — 

The kindest may be taken as a test, [ma.v 
The fair sex should be always fair ; and no 
Till thirty, should perceive there's a plain 



And after that serene and somewhat dull 
Epoch, that awkward corner turn'd for days 

More quiet, when our moon's no more at full, 
We may presume to criticise or praise ; 

Because indifference begins to lull [ways ; 
Our passions, and we walk in wisdom's 

Also because the figure and the i'ace 

Hint, that 'tis time to give the younger place. 

v. 

I know that some would fain postpone this era, 
Reluctant as all placemen to resign 

Their post ; but theirs is merely a chimera, 
For they have pass'd life's equinoctial line: 

But then they have their claret and Madeira, 
To irrigate the dryness of decline; 

And county meetings, and the parliament, 

And debt, and what not, for their solace sent. 

VI. 

And is there not religion, and reform, 

Peace, war, the taxes, and what's call'd the 
" Nation?" 

The struggle to be pilots in a storm ? 
The landed and the monied speculation ? 

The joys of mutual hate to keep them warm, 
Instead of love, that mere hallucination ? 

Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; 

Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure ; 

VII. 

Rough Johnson, the great moralist, proftss'd, 
Right honestly, " he liked an honest 
hater !" — 
The only truth that, yet has been confest 

Within these latest thousand years orlatei 

Perhaps the fine old fellow spoke in jest : — 

For my part, I am but a mere spectator. 

And gaze where'er the palace or the hovel is, 

Much in the mode of Goethe's Mephis- 

topheles; 157 

vm. 
But neither iove nor hate in much excess ; 
Though 'twas not once so. If I sneer some- 
times, 
It is because I cannot well do less, 

And now and then it also suits my rhymes. 
I should be very willing to redress 

Men's wrongs, and rather check than 
punish crimes, 
Had not Cervantes, in that too true talc 
Of Quixote, shown how all such efforts fiul. 



DON JUAN. 



469 



Of all tales 'tis the saddest — and more sad, 

Because it makes us smile : his hero 's right, 
And still pursues the right ; — to curb the bad 

His only object, and 'gainst odds to fight 
His guerdon ■ 't is his virtue makes him mad ! 

But his adventures form a sorry sight ; — 
A sorrier still is the great moral taught 
By that real epic unto all who have thought. 

x. 
Redressing injury, revenging wrong, 

To aid the damsel and destroy the caitiff J 
Opposing singly the united strong, [tive : — 

From foreign yoke to free the helpless na- 
Alas ! must noblest views, like an old song, 

Be for mere fancy's sport a theme creative, 
4 jest, a riddle, Fame through thick aud thin 

sought ! 
And Socrates himself but Wisdom's Quixote? 

XI. 
Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away; 

A single laugh demolish'd the right arm 
Of his own country ; — seldom since that day 

Has Spain had heroes. "While Romance 
could charm, 
The world gave ground before her bright array ; 

And therefore have his volumes done such 
harm, 
That all their glory, as a composition, 
Was dearly purchased by this land's perdition. 

XII 
I 'm " at my old lunes" — digression, and forget 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville: 
The fair most fatal Juan ever met, 

Although she was not evil nor meant ill ; 
Bu'. Destiny and Passion spread the net 

i Fate is a good excuse for our own will), 
And caught them ; — what do they not catch, 

methinks? 
But I 'm not CEdipus, and life 's a Sphinx. 

XIII 

'. tell the tale as it is told, nor dare 

To venture a solution : " Davus sum !" 

And now I will proceed upon the pair. 

Sweet Adeline, amidst the gay world's hum, 

Was the Queen-Bee. the glass of all that'sfair : 
W r hose charms made all men speak, and 
women dumb. 

Ttxe last's a miracle, and such was reckon'd, 

And since that time there has not been a second. 

XIV. 

Chaste was she, to detraction's desperation, 
And wedded unto one she had loved well — 

A man known in the councils of the nation, 
Cool, and quite English, imperturbable, 



Though apt to act with fire upon occasion, 

Proud of himself and her: the world could 
tell [cure — 

Nought against either, and both seem'd ss 
She in her virtue, he in his hauteur. 

xv. 
It chanced some diplomatical relations, 

Arising out of business, often brought 
Himself und Juan in their mutual stations 

Into ..ose contact. Though reserved, nor 

caught [patience. 

By specious seeming, Juan's youth, and 

And talent, on his haughty spirit wrought, 
And form'd a basis of esteem, which ends 
In making men what courtesy calls friends. 

XVI. 

And thus Lord Henry, who was cautious as 
Reserve and pride could make him, and 
full slow [was 

In judging men — when once his judgment 
Determined, right or wrong, on friend or foe, 

Had all the pertinacity pride has, 

Which knows no ebb to its imperious flow 

And loves or hates, disdaining to be guided, 

Because its own good pleasure hath decided. 

XVII. 

His friendships, therefore, and no less aver- 
sions, [but more 
Though oft well founded, which confirm 'd 
His prepossessions, like the laws of Persians 
And Medes, would ne'er revoke what went 
before. [tertians. 
His feelings had not those strange fits, like 
Of common likings, which make some 
deplore * [still 
What they should laugh at — the mere ague 
Of men's regard, the fever or the chill. 

XVIII. 

" 'Tis not in mortals to command success : 
But do you more, Sempronius — don't de- 
serve it," 
And take my word, you won't have any less. 
Be wary, watch the time, and always 
serve it ; [press ; 

Give gently way, when there 's too great a 
And for your conscience, only learn to 
nerve it; 
For, like a racer, or a boxer training, 
T will make, if proved, vast efforts withoul 
paining. 

XIX. 

Lord Henry also liked to be superior, 
As most men do, the little or the great; 

The very lowest find out an inferior. 

At least they think so, to exert their stale 



470 



DON JUAN. 



Upon : for there are very few things wearier 

Than solitary Pride's oppressive weight, 
Which mortals generously would divide, 
Sy bidding others carry while they ride. 

xx. 

in birth, in rank, in fortune likewise equal, 
O'er Juan he could no distinction claim ; 

\n years he had the advantage of time's 

sequel ; [same — 

And, as he thought, in country much the 

Because bold Britons have a tongue and free 
quill, 
At which all modern nations vainly aim ; 

And the Lord Henry was a great debater, 

So that few members kept the house up later. 

XXI. 

These were advantages : and then he thought — 
It was his foible, but byno means sinister — 

That few or none more than himself had caught 

Court mysteries, having been himself a 

minister : [taught, 

He liked to teach that which he had been 
And greatly shone whenever there had been 
a stir; 

And reconciled all qualities which grace man, 

Always a patriot, and sometimes a placeman. 

XXII. 

He liked the gentle Spaniard for his gravity ; 

He almost honour'd him for his docility, 
Because, though young, he acquiesced with 
suavity, 
Or contradicted but with proud humility. 
He knew the world, and would not see depravity 
In faults which sometimes show the soil's 
fertility, 
If that the weeds o'erlivenot the firstcrop — 
For then they are very difficult to stop. 

xxm 
And then he talk'd with him about Madrid, 
Constantinople, and such distant places; 
Where people always did as they were bid, 
Of did what they should not with foreign 
graces. 
Of coursers always spake they . Henry rid 
Well, like most Englishmen, and loved 
the races; 
And Juan, like a true-born Andalusian, 
Could back a horse, as despots ride a Russian. 

xxiv. 
And thus acquaintance grew, at noble routs, 

And diplomatic dinners, or at other — 
For Juan stood well, both with Ins and Outs, 
As in freemasonry a 1 igher brother. 



Upon his talent Henry had no doubts \ 
His manner show'd him sprung from a higk 

mother ; 
And all men like to show their hospitality 
To him whose breeding matches with his 

quality. 

XXV. 

At Blank-Blank Square; — for we will break 
no squares, [sorious 

By naming streets : since men are so cei> 
And apt to sow an author's wheat with tares, 

Reaping allusions private and inglorious, 
Where none were dreamt of, unto love's affairs, 

Which were, or are, or are to be notorious, 
That therefore do I previously declare, 
Lord Henry's mansion was in Blank-Blank 
Square. 

XXVI. 

Also there bin another pious reason 

For making squares and streets anonymous ; 

Which is, that there is scarce a single season 

Which doth not shake some very splendid 

house [son — 

With some slight heart-quake of domestic trea- 
A topic scandal doth delight to rouse : 

Such I might stumble over unawares, 

Unless I knew the very chastest squares. 

XXVII. 

Tis true, I might have chosen Piccadilly, 
A place where peccadillos are unknown ; 

But I have motives, whether wise or silly, 
For letting that pure sanctuary alone. 

Therefore I name not square, street, place, 

until I [shown, 

Find one where nothing naughty can be 

A vestal shrine of innocence of heart* 

Such are but I have lost the London 

Chart. 

XXVIII 

At Henry's mansion then, in Blank-Blanlt 
Square, 

Was Juan a recherche, welcome guest, 
As many other noble scions were ; 

And some who had but talent for their crest; 
Or wealth, which is a passport every where ; 

Or even mere fashion, which indeed 's the 
best 
Recommendation ; and to be well drest 
Will very often supersede the rest. 

XXA. 

And since "there's safety in a multitude 
Of counsellors," as Solomon has said. 

Or some one for him, in some sage, gravti 
mood ; — 
Indeed we see the daily proof display 'd 



DON JUAN. 



471 



In senates, at the bar, in wordy feud, 

Where'er collective wisdom can parade, 
Which is the only cause that we can guess 
■Ji Britain's present wealth and happiness ; — 

xxx. 

but as " there *s safety" grafted in the number 
" Of counsellors," for men, — thus for the sex 

A large acquaintance lets not Virtue slumber; 
Or should it shake, the choice will more 
perplex — 

Variety itself will more encumber. 

'Midst many rocks we guard more against 
wrecks ; [some's 

And thus with women : howsoe'er it shocks 

Self love, there's saletyin a crowd of coxcombs. 

XXXI. 

But Adeline had not the least occasion 

For such a shield, which leaves but little 
merit 

To virtue proper, or good education. 

Her chief resource was in her own high spirit, 

Which judged mankind at. their due estimation; 
And for coquetry, she disdain'd to wear it : 

Secure of admiration, its impression 

Was faint, as of an every-day possession. 

XXXII. 

To all she was polite without parade ; 

To some she show'd attention of that kind 
Which Matters, but is flattery convey 'd 

In such a sort as cannot leave behind 
A trace unworthy either wife or maid ; — 

A gentle, genial courtesy of mind, 
To those who were, or pass'd for meritorious, 
Just to console sad glory for being glorious; 

XXXIII. 

Which is in all respects, save now and then, 
A dull and desolate appendage. Gaze 

Upon the shades of those distinguish'd men, 
Who were or are the puppet-shows of praise. 

The praise of persecution. Gaze again 
On the most favour'd ; and amidst the blaze 

Of sunset halos o'er the laurel-brow'd, 

What can ye recognise ? — a gilded clo-id. 

XXXIV. 

There also was of course in Adeline 

That calm patrician polish in the address, 

Which ne ei can pass the equinoctial line 
Of any thing which nature would express ; 

Just as a mandarin finds nothing fine, — 
At least his manner suffers not to guess, 

That any thing he views can greatly please. 

Perhaps we have borrow'd this from the Chi 
nese~ 



XXXV. 

Perhaps from Horace : his " Nil admirari" 
Was what he call'd the' Art of Happiness;' 

An art on which the artists greatly vary, 
And have not yet attain'd to much sue 

However, 'tis expedient to be wary: 
Indifference certes don't produce diatr 

And rash enthusiasm in good society 

Were nothing but a moral inebriety 

XXXVI. 

But Adeline was not indifferent: for [snow, 
(Now lor a common-place!) beneath th« 

As a volcano holds the lava more 

Within — et aetera. Shall I go on? — No. 

I hate to hunt down a tired metaphor, 
So let the olten-used volcano go. 

Poor thing ! How frequently, by me and others, 

It hath been stirr'd up till its smoke quite 
smothers. 

XXXVII. 

I '11 have another figure in a trice : — 

What say you to a bottle of champagne ? 

Frozen into a very vinous ice, [rain, 

Which leaves few drops of that immortal 

Yet in the very centre, past all price, 
About a liquid glassful will remain; 

And this is stronger than the strongest grape 

Could e'er express in its expanded shape : 

XXXVIII. 

T is the whole spirit brought to a quintessence ; 
And thus the chilliest aspects may concentre 
A hidden nectar under a cold presence. 
And such are many — though I only meant 
her 
From whom I now deduce these moral lessons, 
On which the Muse has always sought to 
enter. 
And your cold people are beyond all price, 
When once you have broken their coufounde 
ice. 

XXXIX. 

But after all they are a North-West Passage 
Unto the glowing India of the soul ; 

And as the good ships sent upon that mess 
Have not exactly ascertain'd the Pole 

(Though Parry's efforts look a lucky prtsa 
Thus gentlemen may run upon a shoal • 

For if the Pole s not open, but all frost 

(A chance still), 'tis a voyage or vessel lost. 

XL. 

And young beginners may as weii commence 
With quiet cruising o'er the ocean woman ; 

While those who are not beginners should 

have sense [mou 

Enough to make for port, ere time shall sum- 



472 



DON JUAN. 



With his grey signal-flag ; and the past tense, 

The dreary " Fuimu* " of all things human, 

Must be declined, while life's thin thread 's 

spun out 
Between the gaping heir and gnawing gout. 

XLI. 

But heaven must be diverted ; its diversion 
Is sometimes truculent — but never mind: 

The world upon the whole is worth the assertion 
(If but for comfort) that all things are kind : 

And that same devilish doctrine of the Persian, 
Of the two principles, but leaves behind 

As many doubts as any other doctrine 

Has ever puzzled Faith withal, or yoked her in. 

XI.II. 

The English winter — ending in July, 

To recommence in August — now was dene. 

'Tis the postilion's paradise: wheels fly: 
On roads, east, south, north, west, there is 
a run. 

But for post-horses who finds sympathy? 
Man's pity 's for himself, or for his son, 

Always premising that said son at college 

Has not contracted much more debt than 
knowledge. 

XLIII. 

The London winter's ended in July — 
Sometimes a little later. I don't err 

In this: whatever other blunders lie 
Upon my shoulders, here I must aver 

My Muse a glass of weatherology ; 
For parliament is our barometer: 

Let radicals its other acts attack, 

Its sessions form our only almanack. 

xliv. 
When its quicksilver 's down at zero, — lo ! 

Coach, chariot, luggage, baggage, equipage! 
Wheels whirl from Carlton palace to Soho, 

And happiest they who horses can engage; 
The turnpikes glow with dust; and Rotten Row 

Sleeps from the chivalry of this bright age; 
And tradesmen, with longbills and longerfaces, 
Sigh — as the postboys faster on the traces. 



They ana their bills, " Arcadians both," are left 
To the Greek kalends of another session. 

Alas ! to them of ready cash bereft. 

What hope remains-? Of hope the full pos 
session, 

Or generous draft, conceded as a gift, 

Atalongdate — till they can get a fresh one — 

Hawk'd about at a discount, small or large ; 

Also the solace of an overcharge. 



But these are trifles Downward flies my lon^ 

Nodding beside my lady in his carriage. 
Away ! away ! " Fresh horses ! " are the word, 
And changed as quickly as head's alter mar- 
riage; [stored; 
The obsequious landlord hath the change re. 
The postboys have no reason to disparage 
Their lee ; but ere the water'd wheels may hist 

hence, 
The ostler pleads too for a reminiscence 

XLVII. 

'T is granted ; and the valet mounts the dickey— 
That gentleman of lords and gentlemen ; 

Also my lady's gentlewoman, tricky, 

Trick 'd out, but modest more than poet's pen 

Can paint, — " Cost viaggino i Ricchi! 158 
(Excuse a foreign slipslop now and then, 

Ifbuttoshow I 'vetravell'd ; and what 's travel, 

Unless it teaches one to quote and cavil ?) 

XLVIII. 

The London winter and the country summer 

Were well nigh over. T is perhaps a pity, 

When nature wears the gown that doth become 

her, 

To lose those best months in a sweaty city, 

And wait until the nightingale grows dumber, 

Listening debates not very wise or witty, 
Ere patriots their tvuecovntrg can remember;— 
But there 's no shooting (save grouse) till Sep- 
tember. 

XLIX. 

I 've done with my tirade. Theworld was gone ; 

The twice two thousand, for whom earth 
was made, 
Were vanish'd to be what they call alone — 

That is, with thirty servants for parade, 
As many guests, or more ; before whom groap 

As many covers, duly, daily laid. 
Let none accuse old England's hospitality — 
Its quantity is but condensed to quality. 

L. 

Lord Henry and the Lady Adelkv 

Departed like the rest of their compeers, 
The peerage, to a mansion very fine ; 

The Gothic Babel of a thousand years. 
None than themselves could boast a longer line, 

Where time through heroes and through 
beauties steers ; 
And oaks as olden as their pedigree 
Told of their sires, a tomb in every tree 

Li. 
A paragraph in every paper told 

Of their departure : such is modern fame:, 
T is pity that it takes no farther hold 

Thar/an advertisement, or much the row* ( 



DON JUAN. 



473 



When, ere the ink be dry, the sound grows cold. 
TheMorningPust was foremost to proclaim — 

' Departure, for his country seat, to-day 
Lord H. Amundeville and Lady A. 

LII. 

" We understand the splendid host intends 

To entertain, this autumn, a select 
A.nd numerous party of his noble friends ; 
Midst whom we have heard, from sources 
quite correct, 

The Duke of D the shooting season spends, 

With many more by rank and fashion deck'd ; 
Also a foreigner of high condition, 
The envoy of the secret Russian mission." 

{.ill. 
And thus we see — who doubts the Morning 
Post? 
(Whose articles are like the "Thirty-nine,"' 
Which those most swear to who believe them 
most) — [shine, 

Our gay Russ Spaniard was ordain'd to 
Deck'd by the rays reflected from his host. 
With those who, Pope says, " greatly daring 
dine." — 
'Tis odd, but true, — last war the News abounded 
More with these dinners than the kill'd or 
wounded ; — 

LIV. 

As thus : " On Thursday there was a grand 
dinner; [name 

Present, Lords A. B. C." — Earls, dukes, by 
Announced with no less pomp than victory's 
winner : 

Then underneath, and in the very same 
Column ; date, " Falmouth. There has lately 
been here [to fame; 

The Slap-dash regiment, so well known 
Whose loss in the late action we regret : 
The vacancies are fill'd up — see Gazette.' 

LV. 
To Norman Abbey whirl'd the noble pair, — 

An old, old monastery once, and now 
Still older mansion, — of a rich and rare 

Mix'd Gothic, such as artists all allow 
Few specimens yet left us can com pare 

Withal: it lies perhaps a little low, 
Because the monks preferr'd a hill behind, 
To shelter their devotion from the wind. 

LVI. 

It stood embosom'd in a happy valley, 

Crown'd by high woodlands, where the 
Druid oak 
Stood like Caractacus in act to rally 

His host, with broad arms 'gainst the thuiv 
der stroke ; 



And from beneath his boughs were seen to sally 

The dappled foresters — as day awoke. 
The branching stag swept down with all his, 
herd, ' 

To quaff a brook which murmur'd like a bird 

LVII. 

Before the mansion lay a lucid lake, 

Broad as transparent, deep, and freshly fed 

By a river, which its soften'd way did take 
In currents through the calmer water spread 

Around: the wildfowl nestled in the brake 
And sedges, brooding in their liquid bed : 

The woods sloped downwards to its brink, and 
stood 

With their green faces fixed uoon the flood. 



Its outlet dash'd into a deep cascade, 

Sparkling with foam, until again subsiding, 

Its shrilling echoes — like an infant made 
Quiet — sank into softer ripples, gliding 

Into a rivulet ; and thus allay 'd. 

Pursued its course, now gleaming, and 
now hiding [now blue 

Its windings through the woods ; now clear 

According as the skies their shadows threw. 



A glorious remnant of the Gothic pile 

(While yet the church was Rome's) stood 
half apart [an aisle. 

In a grand arch, which once screen'd many 
These last had disappear' d — a loss to art: 

The first yet frown'd superbly o'er the soil, 
And kindled feelings in the roughest heart, 

Which mourn'd the power of time's or tem- 
pest's march, 

In gazing on that venerable arch. 



Within a niche, nigh to its pinnacle, [stone- 
Twelve saints had once stood sanctified in 

But these had fallen, not when the friars fell, 
But in the war which struck Charles from 
his throne, 

When each house was a fortalice — as tell 
The annals of full many a line undone, — 

The gallant cavaliers, who fought in vain 

For those who knew not to resign or reigr 



But in a higher niche, alone, but crown'd, 
The Virgin Mother of the God-born Child,** 

With her Son in her blessed arms li>ok'd 

round, spoil'd; 

Spared by some chance when aL W-idewas 



474 



DON JUAN. 



She made the earth befow seem holy ground. 

This may be superstition, weak or wild, 
But even the faintest relics of a shrine 
Of any worship wake some thoughts divine. 



An exquisite small chapel had been able, 
Still unimpair'd. to decorate the scene ; 
The rest had been reform'd, replaced, or sunk 
And spoke more of the baron than the monk. 



A mighty window, hollow in the centre, 
Shorn of its glass of thousand colourings, 

Through which the deepen'd glories once 

could enter, [wings, 

Streaming from off the sun like seraph's 

Now yawns all desolate: now loud, now 

fainter, [oft sings 

The gale sweeps through its fretwork, and 

The owl his anthem, where the silenced quire 

Lie with their hallelujahs quench'd like fire. 

LX1II. 

But in the noontide of the moon, and when 
The wind is winged from one point of 
heaven. [which then 

There moans a strange unearthly sound, 
Is musical — a dying accent driven [again. 

Thioughthe huge arch, which soars and sinks 
Some deem it but the distant echo given 

Back to the night wind by the waterfall. 

And harmonised by the old choral wall : 

LXIV. 

Others, that some original shape, or form 
Shaped by decay perchance, hath given 
the power [warm 

(Though less than that of Memnon's statue, 
In Egypt's rays, to harp at a fix'd hour) 

To this grey ruin with a voice to charm 
Sad, but serene, it sweeps over tree or tower ; 

The cause I know not, nor can solve; but such 

The fact. — I've heard it, — once perhaps too 
much. 



Aniidst the court a Gothic fountain play'd, 
Symmetrical, but deck'd with carvings 
quaint — 

Grange faces, like to men in masquerade, 
And here perhaps a monster, there a saint: 

The spring gush'd through grim mouths of 
granite made, 
And sparkled into basins, where it spent 

Its little torrent in a thousand bubbles, 

Like man'svain glow, and his vainer troubles. 

LXVI. 

The mansion's self was vast and venevable, 
With more of the monastic than has been 

Elsewhere preserved : the cloisters still were 
stable, 
The cells, too, and refectory, I ween : 



Huge halls, long galleries, spacious chambers, 
join'd 
By no quite lawful marriage of the arts, 
Might shock a connoisseur ; but when com 
bined, 
Form'd a whole which, irregular in parts, 
Yet left a grand impression on the mind, 
At least of those whose eyes are in their 
hearts ; 
We ga/.e upon a giant for his stature, 
Nor judge at first if all be true to nature. 

LXVIII. 

Steel barons, molten the next generation 

To silken rows of gay and garter'd earls, 
Glanced from the walls in goodly preservation: 

And Lady Marys blooming into girls, 
With fair long locks, had also kept their 
station : 
And countesses mature in robes and pearls: 
Also some beauties of Sir Peter Lely, 
Whose drapery hints we may admire them 
freely. 

i.xix. 

Judges in very formidable ermine [invite 

Were there, with brows that did not much 

The accused to think their lordships would 

determine [right. 

His cause by leaning much from might to 

Bishops, who had not left a single sermon ; 

Attorneys-general, awful to the sight, [us) 
As hinting more (unless our judgments warp 
Of the " Star Chamber" than of " Habeas 
Corpus." 

LXX. 

Generals, some all in armour, of the old 
And iron time, ere lead had ta'en the lead; 

Others in wigs of Marlborough's martial fold, 
Huger than twelve of our degenerate breed: 

Lordlings, with staves of white or keys of 

gold: [the steed; 

Nimrods, whose canvass scarce contain'd 

And here and there some stern high patriot 
stood, 

Who could not get the place for which he »ued. 



But ever and anon, to soothe your vision, 
Fatigued with these hereditary glories. 

There rose a Carlo Dolce or a Titian. 
Or wilder group of savage Salvatore s : 1 



DON JUAN. 



47; 



flere danced Albano's boys, and here the sea 

shone [stories 

In Vernet's ocean lights ; and there the 

Of martyrs awed, as Spagnoletto tainted 

His brush with all the blood of all the sainted. 

LXXII. 

Here sweetly spread a landscape of Lorraine; 

Thfeie Rembrandt made his darkness equal 
light, 
Or gloomy Caravaggio's gloomier stain 

Bronzed o'er some lean and stoic anchorite: — 
But, lo ! a Teniers woos, and not in vain, 

Your eyes to revel in a lovelier sight: 
His bell-mouth'd goblet makes me feel quite 
Danish [Rhenish. 

Or Dutch with thirst — What, ho ! a flask of 

LXXIII. 

reader ! if that thou canst read, — and know, 
Tis not enough to spell, or even to read, 

To constitute a reader; there must go 

Virtues of which both you and I have need. 

Firstly, begin with the beginning — (though 
Thatclause is hard) ; and secondly, proceed; 

Thirdly, commence not with the end — or, 
sinning 

In this sort, end at least with the beginning. 

LXXIV. 

But, reader, thou hast patient been of late, 
While I, without remorse of rhyme, or fear, 

Have built and laid out ground at such a rate, 
Dan Phoebus takes me for an auctioneer. 

That poets were so from their earliest date, 
By Homer's " catalogue of ships" is clear; 

But a mere modern must be moderate — 

1 spare you then the furniture and plate. 

LXXV. 

The mellow autumn came, and with it came 
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. 

The corn is cut, the manor full of game; 
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats 

In russet jacket : — lynxdike is his aim; 

Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. 

Ah, nutbrown partiidges ! Ah, brilliant phea- 
sants ! [sants. 

And ah, ye poachers! — 'Tis no sport for pea- 

lxxvi. 

\n English autumn, though it hath no vines 
Blushing with Bacchant coronals along 

The paths, o'er which the far festoon entwines 
The red grape in the sunny lands of song, 

I lath yet a purchased choice of choicest wines ; 
The claret light, end the Madeira strong. 

If Britain mourn her bleakness, we can tell her, 

The very best of vineyards is the cellar. 



LXXVII. 

Then, if she h.'lfh not that serene decline 

Which makes the southern autumn's day 
appear 
As if 'twould to a second spring resign 

The season, rather than to winter drear,— 
Of in-door comforts still she hath a mine, — 

The sea-coal fires, the " earliest of the year;" 
Without doors, too, she may compete in mellow, 
As what is lost in green is gain'd in yellow. 

LXXVII I. 
And for the effeminate villeggiatura — 

Rife with more horns than hounds — she 
hath the chase, 
So animated that it might allure a 

Saint from his beads to join the jocund raoe : 
Even Nimrod's self might leave the plains of 
Dura,l6I 

And wear the Melton jacket for a spaee. 
If she hath no wild boars' she hath a tame 
Preserve of bores, who ought to be made game. 

LXXIX. 

The noble guests, assembled at the Abbey, 
Consisted of — we give the sex the pa* — 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke; the Counter 
Crabby ; 
The Ladies Scilly, Busey; — Miss Eclat, 

Miss Bombazeen, Miss Mackstay, Miss 
O'Tabby, 
And Mrs. Rabbi, the rich banker's squaw: 

Also the honourable Mrs. Sleep, [sheep. 

Who look'd a white lamb, yet was a black 

LXXX. 

With other Countesses of Blank — but rank : 
At once the " lie " and the " elite " of crowds ; 

Who pass like water lilter'd in a tank, 

All purged and pious from their nati ve clouds ; 

Or paper turn'd to money by the Bank: 
No matter how or why, the passport shrouds 

The " passee " and the past; for good society 

Is no less famed for tolerance than piety, — 

LXXXI. 

That is, up to a certain point; which point 
Forms the most difficult in punctuation. 

Appearances appear to form the joint 
On which it hinges in a higher statkn ; 

And so that no explosion cry li Aroint 

Thee, witch ! " or each Medea has her Jason 

Or (to the point with Horace and the Pulci) 

" Omne tulit punctum, quse miscuit utile dvlci." 

LXXXII. 

I can't exactly trace their rule of right, 
Which hath a little leaning to a lottery. 

I 've seen a virtuous woman put down quite 
By the mere combination of a coterie ; 



476 



DON JUAN. 



Also a so-so matron boldl/ fight 

Her way back to the world by dint of plottery, 
And shine the very Siria ™2 of the spheres, 
Escaping with a few slight, scarless sneers. 

LXXXIII. 

I have seen more than I '11 say : — but we will 
see 

How our villeggiatura will get on. 
The party might consist of thirty-three 

Of highest caste — the Brahmins of the ton. 
I have named a few, not foremost in degree, 

But ta'en at hazard as the rhyme may run. 
By way of sprinkling, scatter'd amongst these, 
There also were some Irish absentees. 

LXXXIV. 

There was Parolles, too, the legal bully, 
Who limits all his battles to the bar 

And senate : when invited elsewhere, truly 
He shows more appetite for words than war 

There was the young bard Rackrhyme, who 

had newly [star. 

Come out and glimmer'd as a six weeks' 

There was Lord Pyrrho, too, the great free- 
thinker ; 

And Sir John Pottledeep, the mighty drinker. 

LXXXV. 

There was the Duke of Dash, who was a — 
duke, [twelve peers 

" Av, every inch a" duke; there were 
Like Charlemagne's — and all such peers in 
'ook 
And intellect, that neither eyes nor ears 
For commoners had ever them mistook. 
There were the six Miss Rawbolds — pretty 
dears ! [set 

All song and sentiment ; whose hearts were 
Less on a convent than a coronet. 

LXXX'M. 

There were four Honourable Misters, whose 
Honour was more before their names than 
after ; 

There was the preux Chevalier de la ; Ruse, 
Whom France and Fortune lately deign'd to 
waft here, 

Whose chiefly harmless talent was to amuse ; 
But the clubs found it rather serious laughter, 

Because — such washismagicpower to please — 

The dice seem'd charm'd, too, with his repartees. 

LXXXVII. 

Tiere was Die* Dubious, the metaphysician, 
Who loved philosophy and a good dinner; 

Angle, the soi-disant mathematician ; 

Sir Henry Silvercup, the great race-winner 



There was the Reverend RodomontPrecisiai. 
Who did not hate somuchthesin as sinner 
And Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet, 
Good at all things, but better at a bet 

LXXXVIII. 

There was Jack Jargon, the gigantic guards- 
man ; 

And General Fireface, famous in the field, 
A great tactician, and no less a swordsman, 

Who ate, last war, more Yankees than he 

kill'd. [Hardsman, 

There was the waggish Welsh Judge, Jefleries 

In his grave oifiee so completely skill'd, 
That when a culprit came for condemnation, 
He had his judge's joke for consolation 

LXXXIX. 

Good company 's a chess-board — there are 
kings, [world's a game, 

Queens, bishops, knights, rooks, pawns ; the 
Save that the puppets pidl at their own strings, 
Methinks gay Punch hath something of the 
same. 
My Muse, the butterfly hath but her wings, 
Not stings, and flits through ether without 
aim, 
Alighting rarely : — were she but a hornet, 
Perhaps there might be vices which would 
mourn it. 

xc. 
I had forgotten — but must not forget — 

An orator, the latest of the session, 
Who had deliver d well a very set 

Smooth speech, his first and maidenly trans- 
gression 
Upon debate : the papers echoed yet 

With his debut, which made a strong im- 
pression, 
And rank'd with what is every day display 'a — 
" The best first speech that ever yet was made." 

xci. 
Proud of his " Hear hiins !" proud, too, of his 
vote 
And lost virginity of oratory, 
Proud of his learning (just enough to quote), 

He revell'd in his Ciceronian glory . 
With memory excellent to get by rote, 

With wit to hatch a pun or tell a story, 
Graced with some merit, and with more eiFron 
tery, [country 

" His country's pride," he came down to the 



There also were two wits by acclamation, 
Longbow from Ireland, Strcnigba v from lie 
Tweed, J w 



DON JUAN. 



477 



Both lawjers and both men of education ; 
But Strongbow's wit was of more polish d 
breed : 
Longbow was rich in an imagination 

As beautiful and bounding as a steed, 
But sometimes stumbling over a potato, — 
While Strongbow's best things might have 
come from Cato. 

xcm. 
Btrongbow was like a new-tuned harpsichord; 

But Longbow wild as an /Eolian harp, 
With which the winds of heaven can claim 
accord, 
And make a music, whether flat or sharp. 
Of Strongbow's talk you would not change a 
word: [carp: 

At Longbow's phrases you might sometimes 
Both wits — one born so, and the other bred, 
This by his heart — his rival by his head. 

xciv. 
If all these seem an heterogeneous mass 

To be assembled at a country seat, 
Yet think, a specimen of every class 

Is better than a humdrum tete-a-tete. 
The days of Comedy are gone, alas ! 

When Consrreve's fool could vie with Mo- 
Here's bete ; 
Society is smooth 'd to that excess, 
That manners hardly differ more than dress. 

xcv. 
Our ridicules are kept in the back-ground — 

Ridiculous enough, but also dull ; 
Professions, too, are no more to be found 

Professional ; and there is nought to cull 

Of folly's fruit: for though your fools abound, 

They're barren, and not worth the pains to 

'pull. 

Society is now one polish'd horde [Bored. 

Form'd of two mighty tribes, the Bores and 

XCVI. 

But from being farmers, we turn gleaners, 
gleaning [truth ; 

The scanty but right-well thresh'd ears of 
And, gentle reader ! when you gather meaning, 

You may be Boaz. and I — modest Ruth. 
Farther I 'd quote, but Scripture intervening 

Forbids. A great impression in my youth 
Was made by Mrs. Adams, where she cries, 
" That Scriptures out of church are blas- 
phemies." 

xcvn. 
But what we can we glean in this vile age 

Of chaff, although our gleanings be not grist. 
I must not quite omit the talking sage, 

Kit-Cat, the famous Conversationist, 



Who, in his common-place book, had a pa^ 

Prepared each morn for evenings. " List, 
oh list !" — 
" Alas, poor ghost!" — What unexpected woes 
Await those who have studied their hons-mots! 

xcm. 
Firstly, they must allure the conversation, 

By many windings to their clever clinch ; 
And secondly, must let slip no occasion. 

Nor bate (abate} their hearers of an inch, 
But take an ell — and make a great sensation, 

If possible; and thirdly, never flinch 
When some smart talker puts them to the test, 
But seize the last word, which no doubt's the 
best. 

XCIX. 

Lord Henry and his lady were the hosts; 

The party we have touch'd on were the 
guests. 
Their table was a board to tempt even ghosts 

To pass the Styx for more substantial feasts. 
I will not dwell upon ragouts or roasts, 

Albeit all human history attests 
That happiness for man — the hungry sinner! — 
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. 

c. 

Witness the lands which " flow'd with milk 
and honey," 
Held out unto the hungry Israelites; 
To this we have added since, the love of money, 

The only sort of pleasure which requites. 
Youth fades, and leaves our days no longer 
sunny; 
We tire of mistresses and parasites ; 
But oh, ambrosial cash ! Ah ! who would 

lose thee ? 
When we no more can use, or even abuse thee! 



The gentlemen got up betimes to shoot. 
Or hunt: the young, because they liked 
the sport — 
The first thing boys like, after play and fruit; 
The middle-aged, to make the day more 
short ; 
For ennui is a growth of English root, 

Though nameless in our language! — we 
retort 
The fact for words, and let the French translate 
That awful yawn which sleep can not abate. 

Oil. 
The elderly walk'd through the library, 

And tumbled books, or criticised the pictures 
Or saunter'd through the gardens pitiously, 
And made upon the hot-house several stric 
tares, 



478 



DON JUAN. 



Or rode a nag which trotted not too high, 

Or on the morning papers read their lectures, 
Or on the watch their longing eyes would fix, 
Longing at sixty for the hour of six. 

cm. 
But none were "gene:" the great hour of union 

Was rung by dinner's knell; till then all were 
Masters of their own time — or in communion, 

Or solitary, as they chose to bear 
The hours, which how to pass is but to few 
known. 

Each rose up at his own, and had to spare 

What time he chose for dress, and broke his 

fast [past. 

When, where, and how he chose for tha„ re- 

civ. 
The ladies — some rouged, some a little pale — 

Met the morn as they might. If fine, they 
rode, 
Or walk'd ; if foul, they read, or told a tale, 

Sung, or rehearsed the last dance from abroad; 
Discuss'd the fashion which might next prevail, 

And settled bonnets by the newest code, 
Or cramm'd twelve sheets into one little letter, 
To make each correspondent a new debtor. 

cv. 
For some had absent lovers, all had friends. 

The earth has nothing like a she epistle, 
And hardly heaven — because it never ends. 

I love the mystery of a female missal, 
Which, like a creed, ne'er says all it intends, 

But full of cunning as Ulysses' whistle, 
When he allured poor Dolon: — you had better 
Take care what you reply to such a letter. 

cvi. 
Then there were billiards ; cards, too, but no 
dice ; — 

Save in the clubs no man of honour plays ; — 
Boats when 'twas water,skating when 't was ice, 

And the hard frost destroy 'd the scenting days: 
And angling, too, that solitary vice, 

Whatever Izaak Walton sings or says : 
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet 
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it. 

cvn. 
With evening came the banquet and the wine; 

The conversazione ; the duet, 
Attuned by voices more or less divine 

(My heart or head aches with the memory 
yet). 
The four M iss Rawbolds in a glee would shine; 

But the two youngest loved more to be set 
Down to L ,he harp — because to music's charms 
They added graceful necks, white hands and 
arms. 



emu. 
Sometimes a dance( though rarely on field davs, 
For then the gentlemen were rather tired) 
Display 'd some sylph-like figures in its maze; 
Then there was small-talk ready when re- 
quired ; 
Flirtation — but decorous ; the mere praise 
Of charms that should or should not be ad- 
mired, 
The hunters fought their fox-hunt o'ti again, 
And then retreated soberly — at ten. 

cix 
The politicians, in a nook apart, 

Discuss'd the world, and settled all the 
spheres : 
The wits watch'd every loophole for their ait, 

To introduce a bon-mot head and ears ; 
Small is the rest of those who would be smart, 
A moment's good thing may have cost them 
years, 
Before they find an hour to introduce it ; 
And then, even then, some bore may make 
them lose it 

ex. 
But all was gentle and aristocratic 

In this our party ; polish'd, smooth, and cold. 
As Phidian forms cut out of marble Attic. 

There now are no Squire Westerns as of old, 
And our Sophias are not so emphatic, 
But lair as then, or fairer to behold. 
We have no accomplish 'd blackguards, like 

Tom Jones, 
But gentlemen in stays, as stiff as stones. 

cxi. 
They separated at an early hour ; 

That is, ere midnight — which is London's 
noon : 
But in the country ladies seek their bower 

A little earlier than the waning moon. 
Peace to the slumbers of each folded flower- 
May the rose call back its true colour soonf 
Good hours of -fair cheeks are the fairest tinterts 
And lower the price of rouge — a t least som* 
winters. 



Bon 3Juan. 



CANTO THE FOURTEBJITH. 



If from great nature s or our own abyss 
Of thought we could but snatch a certain**. 



DON JUAN. 



179 



Perhaps winkind might find the path they 
miss — 

Hut then t would spoil muchgood philosophy. 
One system eats another up, and this 

Much as old Saturn ate his progeny ; 
For when his pious consort gave him stones 
In lieu of sons, of these he made no bones. 

ii. 
But System doth reverse the Titan's breakfast, 

And eats her parents, albeit the digestion 
I* difficult. Pray tell me, can yon make fast, 

After due search, your faith to any question? 
Look back o'er ages, ere unto the stake fast 

You bind yourself, and call some mode the 
best one. 
Nothing more true than not to trust your senses , 
And yet what are your other evidences ? 

in. 
For me, I know nought ; nothing I deny, 

Admit, reject, contemn; and what know you. 
Except perhaps that you were born to die? 

And both may after all turn out untrue. 
An age may come, Font of Eternity, 

When nothing shall be either old or new. 
Death, so call'd, is a thing which makes men 

weep, 
And yet a third of life is pass'd in sleep. 

IV. 

A sleep without dreams, after a rough day 
Of toil, is what we covet most ; and yet 
How clay shrinks back from more quiescent 
* clay ! 
The very Suicide that pays his debt 
At once without instalments (an old way 

Of paying debts, which creditors regret) 
Lets outs impatiently his rushing breath, 
Less from disgust of life than dread of death. 

v. 
T is round him, near him, here, there, every 
where; [tear, 

A nd there 's a courage which grows out of 
Perhaps of all most desperate, which will dare 
The worst to know it : — when the moun- 
tains rear [there 
Their peaks beneath your human foot, and 
You look down o'er the precipice, and drear 
The gulf of rock yawns, — you can't gaze a 

minute, 
Without an awful wish to plunge within it. 

M. 

Tis true, you don't — but, pale and struck with 

terror, 

Retire: but look into your past impression. 

And you will find, though shuddering at the 

mirror [fession, 

Of your own thoughts, in all their sclf-'«on- 



The lurking bias, be it truth or error, 

To the unknown; a secret prepossession, 
To plunge with all your fears — but where ? 

You know not, 
Ajid that 's the reason why you do — or do nt t. 



But what 's this to the purpose? vou will say 
Gent, reader, nothing; a mere speculation. 

For which my sole excuse is — 't is my way, 
Sometimes with and sometimes without 
occasion 

I write what's uppermost without delay ; 
This narrative is not meant for narration, 

But a mere airy and fantastic basis, 

To build up common things with comm'/n 
places. 

VIII. 

You know, or don't know, that great Bacon 
saith, [ wind blows ;" 

" Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the 
And such a straw, borne on by human breath 

Is poesy, according as the mind glows ; 
A paper kite which flies 'twixt life and death, 

A shadow which the onward soul behind 
throws : 
And mine's a bubble, not blown up for praise, 
But just to play with, as an infant plays. 



The world is all before me — or behind ; 

For I have seen a portion of that same, 
And quite enough for me to keep in mind ; — 

Of passions, too, I have proved enough to 
blame, 
To the great pleasure of our friends, mankind, 

Who like to mix some slight alloy with fame; 
For I was rather famous in my time, 
Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. 



I have brought this world about my ears, and eke 
The other: that's to say, the clergy — who 

Upon my head have bid their thunders break 
In pious libels by no means a l't;w, 

And yet I can't help scribbling once a week, 
Tiring old readers, nor discovering new. 

In youth I wrote because my mind was full, 

And now because I feel it growing dull. 



But " why then publish ? " — TLero are no 

rewards [weary. 

Of fame or profit when the world grows 

I ask in turn, — Why do you play at cards ? 

Why drink ? Why read ?— To make some 

hour less dreary. 



480 



DON JUAN. 



It occupies me to turn back regards 

On what I 've seen or pcnder'd, sad or cheery; 
And what I write i cast upon the stream, 
To swim or sink — I have had at least my dream. 

XII. 

I think that were I certain of success, 
I hardly could compose another line: 

So long I 've battled either more or less, 
That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. 

This feejing 't is not easy to express, 
And yet 'tis not affected, I opine. 

Tn play, there are two pleasures for youi 
choosing — 

The one is winning, and the other losing. 

XIII. 

Besides, my Muse by no means deals in fiction: 

She gathers a repertory of facts, 
Of course with some reserve and slight re- 
striction, 

But mostly sings of human things and acts — 
And that's one cause she meets with contra- 
diction ; [attracts ; 

For too much truth, at first sight, ne'er 
And were her object only what's call'd glory, 
With more ease too she 'd tell a different story. 

XIV. 

Love, war, a tempest — surely there 's variety; 

Also a seasoning slight of lucubration ; 
A bird's eye view, too, of that wild, Society; 

A slight glance thrown on men of every sta- 
tion. 
If you have nought else, here's at least satiety, 

Both in performance and in preparation ; 
And though these lines should only line port- 
manteaus, 
Trade will be all the better for these Cantos. 

xv. 
The portion of this world which I at present 

Have taken up to fill the following sermon, 
Is one of which there 's no description recent: 

^he reason why, is easy to determine : 
Although it seems both prominent and pleasant, 

There is a sameness in its gems and ermine, 
A dull and family 'likeness through all ages, 
Of no great promise for poetic pages. 

XVI. 

With much to excite, there 's little to exalt ; 

Nothing that speaks to all men and all times; 
A sort of varnish over every fault ; 

A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; 
Factitious passions, wit without much salt, 

A want of that true nature which sublimes 
Whate'er it shows with truth ; a smooth mo- 
notony [any. 
Of character, in those at least who have got 



XVII. 

Sometimes, indeed, like soldiers _fl paiade. 

Thev break their ranks and gladly leave ihi 
"drill: 
But then the roll-call draws them back afraid 

And they mustbe or seem what they were: stif 
Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade ; 

But when of the first sight you have had 
your fill, 
It palls — at least it did so upon me, 
This paradise of pleasure and ennui. 

XVIII. 

When we have made our love, and gamed 
our gaming, [more ; 

Drest, voted, shone, and, may be, something 
With dandies dined; heard senators declaiming; 

Seen beauties brought to market by the score, 
Sad rakes to sadder husbands chastely taming ; 

There 's little left but to be bored or bore. 
Witness those " ci-devant jeunes hommes " who 
stem [them. 

The stream, nor leave the world which leaveth 

XIX. 

*T is said — indeed a general complaint — 
That no one has succeeded in describing 

The monde, exactly as they ought to paint : 
Some say, that authors only snatch, by bribing 

The porter, some slight scandals strange ano 
quaint, 
To furnish matter for their moral gibing ; 

And that their books have but one style in 
common — 

My lady's prattle, filter'd through her woman. 

XX. 

But this can't well be true, just now; for writers 
Are grown of the beau monde a part potential: 

I 've seen them balance even the scale with 
fighters, 
Especially when young, for that's essential. 

Why do their sketches fail them as ind iters 
Of what they deem themselves most conse- 
quential, 

The real portrait of the highest tribe? 

'T is that, in fact, there 's little to describe. 

XXI. 

"Hand ignara loquor ;" these are Nugtp, 
" quarum 
Pars parva fui," but still art and part. 
Now I could much more easily sketch a harem, 

A battle, wreck, or history of the heart, . 
Than these things; and besides, I wish to 
spare 'em. 
For reasons which I choose to Keep apart. 
" Vetabo Cerens sacrum qui vulaarit " — 
Which means that vulgar people must not 
share it. 



DON JUAN. 



481 



XXII. 

And therefore what I throw off is ideal — 
Lower'd, leaven'd, like a history of free- 
masons ; 

Which bears the same relation to the real, 
As Captain Parry's voyage may do to Jason's. 

The grand arcanum's not for men to see all ; 
My music has some mystic diapasons; 

And there is much which could not be appre- 
ciated 

la any manner by the uninitiated. 

XXIII. 

Alas! worlds fall — and woman, since she fell'd 
The world (as, since that history, less polite 

Than true, hath been a creed so strictly hehi) 
Has not yet given up the practice quite. 

Poor thing of usages ! coerced, compell'd, 
Victim when wrong, and martyr oft when 
right, 

Condemned to child-bed, as men for their sins 

Have shaving too entail'd upon their chins, — 

XXIV. 

A daily plague, which in the aggregate 
May average on the whole with parturition 

But as to women, who can penetrate 

The real sufferings of their she condition? 

Man's very sympathy with their estate 

Has much of selfishness, and more suspicion.. 

Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, * 

But form good housekeepers, to breed a nation. 



All this were very well, and can't be better; 

But even this is difficult, Heaven knows, 
So many troubles from her birth beset her, 

Such small distinction between friends and 
foes, 
The gilding wears so soon from off her fetter, 

That but ask any woman if she'd choose 

(Take her at thirty, that is) to have been 
Female or male ? a schoolboy or a queen ? 

XXVI. 

" Petticoat influence" is a great reproach, 
Which even those who obey would fain be 
thought 

To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach ; 
But since beneath it upon earth we are 
brought, 

By various joltings of life's hackney coach, 
I for one venerate a petticoat — 

A garment of a mysticai sublimity, 

No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity 



32 



XXVII. 

Much I respect, and much I have adored, 
In my youngdays, that chaste and goodly veil 

Which holds a treasure, like a miser's hoard, 
And more attracts by all it doth conceal — 

A golden scabbard on a Damasque sword, 
A loving letter with a mystic seal, 

A cure for grief — for what can ever rankle 

Before a petticoat and peeping ankle ? 

XXVIII. 

And when upon a silent, sullen day, 
With a sirocco, for example, blowing, 

When even the sea looks dim with all its spray, 
And sulkily the river's ripple 's flowing, 

And the sky shows that very ancient gray, 
The sober, sad antithesis to glowing, — 

'T is pleasant, if then any thing is pleasant, 

To catch a glimpse even of a pretty peasant. 

XXIX. 

We left our heroes and our heroines 

In that fair clime which don't depend on 
climate, 

Quite independent of the Zodiac's signs, 
Though certainly more difficult to rhyme at, 

Because the sun,and stars.and aught that shines. 
Mountains, and all we can be most sublime at, 

Are there oft dull and dreary as a dun — 

Whether a sky's or tradesman's is all one. 

XXX. 

An in-door life is less poetical ; 

And out of door hath showers, and mists, 
and sleet, 
With which I could not brew a pastoral. 

But be it as it may, a bard must meet 
All difficulties, whether great or small, 

To spoil his undertaking or complete, 
And work away like spirit upon matter, 
Embarrass'd somewhat both with fire ami water. 



Juan — in this respect, at least, like saints — 
Was all things unto people of all sorts, 

And lived contentedly, without complaints, 
In camps, in ships, in cottages or courts — 

Born with that happy soul which seldom faints. 
And mingling modestly in toils or sports. 

He likewise could be most things to all women. 

Without the coxcombry of certain she men. 

XXXII. 

A fox-hunt to a foreigner is strange ; 

'T is also subject to the double danger 
Of tumbling first, and having in exchange 

Some pleasant jesting at the awkward 
stranger • 



2 i 



482 



DON JUAN. 



But Juan had been early taught to range 

The wilds, as doth an Arab turn'd avenger. 
So that his horse, or charger, hunter, hack, 
Knew that he had a rider on his back. 

XXXIII. 

And now in this new field, with some applause. 

He clear 'd hedge, ditch, and double post, 

and rail, [.pa*," 

And never craned, and made but few "faux 

And only fretted when the scent 'gan fail. 
He broke, 'tis true, some statutes of the laws 

Of hunting — for the sagest youth is frail ; 
Rode o'er the hounds, it may be, now and then, 
And once o'er several country gentlemen. 

XXXIV. 

But on the whole, to general admiration 
He acquitted both himself and horse : the 
squires 

Marvell'd at merit of another nation ; 

The boors cried " Dang it ! who *d hare 
thought it ? " — Sires, 

The Nestors of the sporting generation. 

Swore praises, and recall' d their former fires; 

The huntsman's self relented to a grin, 

And rated him almost a whipper-in. 

XXXV. 

Such were his trophies — notof spear and shield, 
But leaps, and bursts, and sometimes foxes' 
brushes ; 

Yet I must own, — although in this I yield 
To patriot sympathy a Briton's blushes, — 

He thought at heart like courtly Chesterfield, 
Who, after along chase o'er hills,dales,bushes, 

And what not, though he rode beyond all price 

Ask'd next day, " If men ever hunted twice ?'' 

XXXVI. 

He also had a quality uncommon 
To early risers after a long chase, 

Who wake in winter ere the cock can summon 
December's drowsy day to his dull race, — 

A quality agreeable to woman, 

When her soft, liquid words run on apace, 

Who likes a listener, whether saint or sinner, — 

He did not fall asleep just after dinner; 

XXXVII. 

But, light and airy, stood on the alert, 
And shone in the best part of dialogue, 

By humouring always what they might assert, 
And listening to the topics most in vogue ; 

Now grave, now gay, but never duli or pert; 
And smiling but in secret — cunning rogue ! 

He ne'er presumed to make an error clearer : — 

In «hort, there never was a better hearer. 



XXXVIII. 

And then he danced ; — all foreigners excel 
The serious Angles in the eloquence 

Of pantomime ; — he danced, I say, right wiE 
With emphasis, and also with good sense— • 

A thing in footing indispensable ; 

He danced without theatrical pretence, 

Not like a ballet-master in the van 

Of his drill' d nymphs, but like a gentleman. 

XXXIX. 

Chaste were his steps, each kept within due 
bound, 

And elegance was sprinkled o'er his figure ; 
Like swiftCamilla,he scarce skimm'd the ground, 

And rather held in than put forth his vigour ; 
And then he had an ear lor music's sound, 

Which might defy a crotchet critic's rigour. 
Such classic pas — sans flaws — set off our hero 
He glanced like a personified Bolero ; 16 * 

XL. 

Or like a flying Hour before Aurora. 

In Guido's famous fresco 16 *, which alone 
Is worth a tour to Home, although no more a 

Remnant were there of the old world's sole 
throne, 
The " tout ensemble " of his movements wore a 

Grace of the soft ideal, seldom shown, 
And ne'er to be described; for to the dolour 
Of bards and prosers, words are void of colour. 

XLI. 

No marvel then he was a favourite ; 

A full-grown Cupid, very much admired; 
A little spoilt, but by no means so quite ; 

At least he kept his vanity retired. 
Such was his tact, he could alike delight 

The chaste, and those who are not so much 

inspired. [serie,' 

The Duchess of Fitz-Fulke, who loved " tracas- 

Began to treat him with some small "agacerie." 

XLII. 

She was a fine and somewhat full-blown blonde, 
Desirable, distinguish'd, celebrated 

For several winters in the grand, grand nwnde. 
I 'd rather not say what might be related 

Of her exploits, for this were ticklish ground ; 
Besides there might be falsehood in what'* 
stated : 

Her late performance had been a dead set 

At Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLIII. 

This noble personage began to look 
A little black upon this new flirtation ; 

But such small licences must lovers brook, 
Mere freedoms of the female corporation. 



DON JUAN. 



483 



Woe to the man who ventures a rebuke ! 

Twill but precipitate a situation 
Extremely disagreeable, but common 
To calculators, when they count on woman. 

XLIV. 

The circle smiled, then whisper'd, and then 
sneer'd ; 
The Misses bridled, and the matrons frown'd ; 
Some hoped things might not turn out as they 
fear'd ; [be found , 

Some would not deem such women could 
Some ne'er believed one half of what they 
heard ; [profound : 

Some look'd perplex'd, and others look'd 
And several pitied with sincere regret, 
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

XLV. 

But what is odd, none ever named the duke, 
Who, one might think, was something" in 
the affair: 

True, he was absent, and 'twas rumour 'd, took 
Butsmall concern about the when, or where, 

Or what his consort did : if he could brook 
Her gaieties, none had a right to stare : 

Theirs was that best of unions, past all doubt 

Which never meets, and therefore can't fall 
out. 

XLVI. 

But, oh! thatl should ever pen so sad aline* 
Fired with an abstract love of virtue, she, 

My Dian of the Ephesians, Lady Adeline, 
Began to think the duchess' conduct free. 

Regretting much that she had chosen so bad 
a line, 
And waxing chiller in her courtesy, 

Look'd grave and pale to see her friend's 
fragility, [bility. 

For which most friends reserve their sensi- 

XLVII. 

There's nought in this bad world like sym- 
pathy : 

Tis so becoming to the soul and face, 
Sits to soft music the harmonious sigh, [lace. 

And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels 
Without a friend, what were humanity, 

To hunt our errors up with a good grace ? 
Consoling us with — " Would you had thought 

twice ! 
Ah! if you had but follow'd my advice!" 

XLVIJI. 

O Job! you had two friends: one's quite 
enough, 

Especially when we are ill at ease ; [rough, 
They are but bad pilots when the weather's 

Doctors less famous for their cures than fees. 



Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, 

As they will do like leaves at the first breeze : 

When your affairs come round, one way or 

t'other, 
Go to the coffee-house, and take another. 



But this is not my maxim : had it been, 

Some heart-aches had been spared me : yd 
I care not — 

I would not be <x tortoise in his screen 

Of stubborn shell, which waves and wea- 
ther wear not. 

T is better on the whole to have felt and seen 
Thatwhich humanity may bear, orbear not: 

T will teach discernment to the sensitive, 

And not to pour their ocean in a sieve. 

L. 

Of all the lvorrid, hideous notes of woe, 
Sudderthan owl-songs or the midnight blast, 

Is that portentous phrase, " I told you so," 
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the 
past, [do, 

Who, 'stead of saying what you now should 
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last, 

And solace your slight lapse 'gainst " bonot 
mores," 

With a long memorandum of old stories. 

LI. 

The Lady Adeline's serene severity 

Was not confined to feeling for her friend, 

Whose fame she rather doubted with posterity. 
Unless her habits should begin to mend : 

But Juan also shared in her austerity, 

But mix'd with pity, pure as e'er was 
penn'd : 

His inexperience moved her gentle ruth, 

And (as her junior by six weeks) his youth. 

LII. 

These forty days' advantage of her years 

And hers were those which can face calcu- 
lation, 
Boldly referring to the list of peers [tio«. — 

And noble births, nor dread the enun-era 
Gave her a right to have maternal fears 

For a young gentleman's fit education, 
Though she was far from that leap year. 

whose leap, 
In female dates, strikes Time all of a heap. 

§ 

LIII. 

This may be fix'd at somewhere before thirty— • 
Say seven-and-twenty ; for I never knew 

The strictest in chronology and virtue [new 
Advance beyond, while they could pass fa 
2x2 



48J: 



DON JUAJS r . 



O Time ! why dost not pause ? Thy scythe, 
so dirty [hew. 

With rust, should surely cease to hack and 
Reset it ; shave more smoothly, also slower, 
If but to keep thy credit as a mower. 

LIV. 

But Adeline was far from that ripe age, 
Whose ripeness is but bitter at the best . 

T was rather her experience made her sage, 
For she had seen the world and stood its 
test, 

As I have said in— I foi get what page ; 
My Muse despises reference, as you have 
guess'd [twenty, 

By this time ; — but strike six from seven-and- 

And you will find her sum of years in plenty. 

LV. 

At sixteen she came out ; presented, vaunted, 
She put all coronets into commotion : 

At seventeen, too, the world was still en- 
chanted 
With the new Venus of their brilliant ocean : 

At eighteen, though below her feet still panted 
A hecatomb of suitors with devotion, 

She had consented to create again 

That Adam, called " The happiest of men." 



Since then she had sparkled through three 
glowing winters, 

Admired, adored ; but also so correct, 
That she had puzzled all the acutest hinters, 

Without the apparel of being circumspect : 
They could not even glean the slightest splinters 

From off the marble, which had no defect. 
She had also snatch'd a moment sinee her 

marriage, 
To bear a son and heir — and one miscarriage. 

LVII. 

Fondly the wheeling fire-flies flew around her, 
Those little glitterers of the London night , 

But none of these possess'd a sting to wound 
her — 
She was a pitch beyond a coxcomb's flight. 

Perhaps she wish'd an aspirant profounder ; 
But whatsoe'er she wish'd, she acted right ; 

And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify 

A womar, so she's good, what does it signify? 

LVIII. 

I ha<,e a motive, like a lingering bottle 

Which with the landlord makes too long a 
stand, 

Leaving all-claretless the unmoisten'd throttle, 
Especially with politics on hand ; 



I hate it, as I hate a drove of cattle, [sand ; 
Who whirl the dust as simooms whirl the 
I hate it as I hate an argument, 
A laureate's ode, or servile peer's "content" 



'Tis sad to hack into tie roots of things, 
They are so much intertwisted with the 
earth ; 

So that the branch a goocLy verdure flings, 
I reck not if an ascrn gave it birth. 

To trace all actions to their secret springs 
Would make indeed some melancholy mirth; 

But this is not at present my concern, 

And I refer you to wise Oxenstiern. 



With the kind view of saving an eclat, 
Both to the duchess and diplomatist, 

TKe Lady Adeline, as soon 's she saw 
That Juan was unlikely to resist — 

(For foreigners don't know that a faux pas 
In England ranks quite on a different list 

From those of other lands unblest with juries, 

Whose verdict for such sinacertain cure is; — ) 



The Lady Adeline resolved to take [impede 
Such measures as she thought might best 

The farther progress of this sad mistake. 
She thought with some simplicity indeed ; 

But innocence is bold even at the stake, 
And simple in the world, and doth not need 

Nor use those palisades by dames erected, 

Whose virtue lies in never being detected. 

LXII. 

It was not that she fear'd the very worst: 
His Grace was an enduring, married man, 

And was not likely all at once to burst 
Into a scene, and swell the clients' clan 

Of Doctors' Cornrccns : but she dreaded first 
The magic of her Grace's talisman, 

And next a quarrel (as he seem'd to fret) 

With Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet. 

LXIII. 

Her Grace, too, pass'd for being an intrigante, 

And somewhat mech\nU in her amorous 

sphere; [haunt 

One of those pretty, prc.'ous plagues, which 
A lover with caprices soft and dear, 

That like to make a quarrel, when they can' 
Find one, each day of the delightful year: 

Bewitching, torturing, as they freeze or glow 

And — what is worst of all — won't let you go 



DON JUAN. 



485 



T.XIV. 

The sort of th ; pg to turn a young man's head, 
Or make a Werter of him in the end. 

No wonder then a purer soul should dread 
This sort of chaste liaison for a friend ; 

It were much better to be wed or dead, 
Than wear a heart a woman loves to rend. 

Tis best to pause, and think, ere you rush on, 

If that a " bonne fortune" be really " bonne." 

LXV. 

And first, in the overflowing of her heart, 
Which really knew or thought it knew no 
guile, 

She call'd her husband now and then apart, 
And bade him counselJuan. With a Miiile 

Lord Henry heard her plans of artless art 
To wean Don Juan from the siren's wile ; 

And answer'd, like a statesman or a prophet, 

In such guise that she could make nothing 
of it. 

LXVI. 

Firstly, he said, " he never interfered 
In anybody's business but the king's :" 

Next, that " he never judged from what ap- 

pear'd, [things ;" 

Without strong reason, of those sort of 

Thirdly, that " Juan had more brain than 
beard, 
And was not to be held in leading strings ;" 

And fourthly, what need hardly be said twice, 

:< Thatgoodbut rarely came from good advice." 

LXVII. 

And, therefore, doubtless to approve the truth 
Of the last axiom, he advised his spouse 

To leave the parties to themselves, forsooth — 
At least as far as bienseance allows : 

That time would temper Juan's faults of youth ; 
That young men rarely made monastic vows; 

That opposition only more attaches — 

But here a messenger brought in despatches : 

LXVII. 

nd being of the council call'd " the Privy," 
Lord Henry walk'd into his cabinet, 

fo furnish matter for some future Livy, 
To tell how he reduced the nation's debt ; 

And if their full contents I do not give ye, 
It is because I do not know them yet ; 

But I shall add them in e irief appendix, 

To come between mine epic and its index. 



But ere he went, he added a slight hint, 
Another gentle common-place o. - two, 

Such as are coin'd in conversation : mint, 
And pass, for want of better, though not nev 



Then broke his packet, to see what was in 't, 

And having casually glanced it through, 
Retired : and, as he went out, calmly kiss d her, 
Less like a young wife than an aged sister. 



He was a cold, good, honourable man, 

Proud of his birth, and proud of every thug-, 

A goodly spirit for a state divan, 
A figure fit to walk before a king; 

Tall, stately, form'd to lead the courtly van 
On birthdays, glorious with a star and string; 

The very model of a chamberlain — 

And such I mean to make him when I reign. 

LXXI. 

But there was something wanting on the 
whole— [tell — 

I don't know what, and therefore cannot 
Which pretty women — the sweet souls ! — call 
spul. 

Ctrtcs it was not body ; he was well 
Proportion'd, as a poplar or a pole, 

A handsome man, that human miracle ; 
And in each circumstance of love or war, 
Had still preserved his perpendicular. 

LXXII. 

Still there was something wanting, as I "ve 
said — 

That undefinable " Je ne scats qnoi," 
Which, for what [ know, may of yore havele? 

To Homer's Iliad, since it drew to Troy 
TheGreekKve, Helen, from theSpartan's bed ; 

Though on the whole, no doubt, the Dardan 
boy 
Was much inferior to King Menelaiis : — 
But thus it is some women will betray us. 

Lxxrri. 
There is an awkward thing which much per- 
plexes, 
Unless like wise Tiresias we had proved 
By turns the difference of the several sexes ; 
Neither can show quite how they would be 
loved. 
The sensual for a short time but connects us— 

The sentimental boasts to be unmoved ; 
But both together form a kind of centaur, 
Upon whose back 't is better not to venture 

LXXJV. 

A something all-sufficient for the heart 
Is that tor which the sex are always seeking 

But how to fill up that same vacant part? 
There lies the rub — and this they are bu-' 
weak in. 



486 



DON JUAN. 



Fiail mariners afloat withDiit a chart, 
Tlww run before the wind through high seas 
breaking ; [every shock, 

And when they have made the shore through 
T is odd, or odds, it may turn out a rock. 

lxxv. 
There is a flower call'd " Love in Idleness," 
For which see Shakspeare's ever blooming 

garden : — 
will not make his great description less, 
And beg his British godship's humble pardon, 
if in my extremity of rhyme's distress, 

I touch a single leaf where he is warden; — 
But through the flower is different, with the 

French 
Or Swiss Rousseau, cry " Voila la Pervenche /" 

LXXVI 

Eureka ! I have found it ! What I mean 
To say is, not that love is idleness, 

But that in love such idleness has been 
An accessory, as I have cause to guess. 

Hard labour 's an indifferent go-between ; 
Your men of business are not apt to express 

Much passion, since the merchant-ship, the 
Argo, 

Convey 'd Medea as her supercargo. 

LXVII. 

'' Beatus ille procul!" from " negotiis," 
Saith Horace ; the great little poet's wrong; 

His other maxim, " Noscitur a sociis," 
Is much more to the purpose of his song; 

Though even that were sometimes too ferocious, 
Unless good company be kept too long ; 

But, in his teeth, whate'er their state or station, 

Thrice happy they who have an occupation ! 

LXXV1II. 

A flam exchanged his Paradise for ploughing. 
Eve made up millinery with fig leaves — 

The earliest knowledgefrom the tree so knowing, 
As far as I know, that the church receives: 

And since that time it need not cost much 
showing, 
Th.it. many of the ills o'er which man grieves, 

Lr.d still more women, spring from not em- 
ploying joying. 

Some hours to make the remnant worth en- 

LXXIX. 

And hence high life is oft a dreary void, 
A rack of pleasures, where we must invent 

A something wherewithal to be annoy'd. 
Bards may sing what they please about 
Content ; 

Contented, when translated, means but cloy 'd ; 
And hence a-ise the woes of sentiment. 

Blue devils, and blue-stockings, and romances 

Reduced to practice, and perform 'd like dances 



LXXX. 

I do declare, upon an affidavit, 

Romances I ne'er read like those I have seenj 
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it, 

Would some believe that such a tale had 
been ; 
But such intent I never had, nor have it; 

Some truths are better kept behind a screen, 
Especially when they would look like lies ; 
I therefore deal i;i generalities. 

LXXXI 

" An oyster may be cross'd in love," — and 
why ? 

Because he mopeth idly in his shell, 
And heaves a lonely subterraqueous sigh, 

Much as a monk may do within his cell: 
And a-propos ol monks, their piety 

With sloth hath found it difficult to dwell ; 
Those vegetables of the Catholic creed 
Are apt exceedingly to run to seed. 

LXXXII. 

O Wilberforce ! thou man of black renown, 
Whose merit none enough can sing or say, 

Thou hast struck one immense Colossus down, 
Thou moral Washington of Africa ! 

But there 's another little thing, I own, 

Which you should perpetrate some summer's 
day, 

And set the other half of earth to rights ; 

You have freed the blacks — now pray shut up 
the whites. 

LXXXIII. 

Shut up the bald-coot 10ti bully Alexander ! 

Ship off' the Holy Three to Senegal ; 
Teach them that " sauce for goose is sauce for 
gander," 

And ask them how they like to be in thrall ? 
Shut up each high heroic salamander, 

Who cats fire gratis (since the pay 's but 
small) ; 
Shut up — no. wo/ the King, but the Pavilion,'**? 
Or else 't will cost us all another million. 

LXXXIV. 

Shut up the world at large, let Bedlam out ; 

And you will be perhaps surprised to find 
All things pursue exactly the same route, 

As now with those of soi-disant sound mind. 
This I could prove beyond a single doubt, 

Where there a jot of sense among mankind; 
But till that point d'appui is found, alas ! 
Like Archimedes, I leave earth as 'twas. 

LXXXV. 

Our gentle Adeline had one defect — 

H«- - heart was vacant, though a splendid 
mansion ; 



DON JUAN. 



487 



Her conduct had been perfectly correct, 
As she had seen nought claiming its expan- 
sion. 
A wavering spirit may be easier *neck'c! 
Because t is frailer, doubtless, tLan a s.u.ci 
one : 
Bat when the latter works its own undo.ng, 
Its inner crash is like an earthquake's rain. 

lxxxvi. 

She loved her lord, or thought so ; but that love 
Cost her an effort, which is a sad toil, 

The stone of Sysiphus, if once we move 
Our feelings 'gainst the nature of the soil. 

She had nothing to complain of, or reprove, 
No bickerings, no connubial turmoil : 

Their union was a model to behold, 

Serene and nohle, — conjugal, but cold. 

LXXXVII. 

There was no great disparity of years, 

Though much in temper ; but they never 
clash'd: 

They moved like stars united in their spheres 
Or like the Rhone by Leman's waters wash'd, 

Where mingled and yet separate appears 
The river from the lake, all bluely dash'd 

Through the serene and placid glassy deep, 

Which fain would lull its river-child to sleep. 

LXXXVIII. 

Now when she once had ta'en an interest 
In any thing, however she might flatter 

Herself thai her intentions were the best, 
Intense intentions are a dangerous matter: 

Impi?ssions were much stronger than she 
guess'd, 
And gather'd as they run like growing water 

Upon her mind ; the more so, as her breast 

Was not at first too readily impress'd. 

LXXXIX. 

But when it was, she had that lurking demon 
Of double nature, and thus doubly named — 

B'irmness yclept in heroes, kings, and sxarhen, 
That is, when they succeed ; but greatly 
blamed 

As ohttinacy, both in men and women. 
Whene'er their triumph pales, or star is 
tamed : — 

And 't will perplex the casuist in norality 

To fix the due bounds of this dangerous quality. 



To draw the line between the false and true . 
If such can e'er be drawn by man's capacitj 
My business is, with Lady Adeline, 
Who in her way too was a heroine. 



She knew not her own heart ; then how 
should I ? 

I think not she was then in love with Juan 
If so, she would have had the strength to fly 

The wild sensation, unto her a new one : 
She merely felt a common sympathy 

(I will not say it was a false or true one) 
In him, because she thought he was in dan- 
ger, — [stranger. 
Her husband's friend, her own, young, and a 



She was, or thought she was, his friend— and 
this 

Without the farce of friendship, or romance 
Platonism, which leads so oft amiss 

Ladies who have studied friendship but in 
France, 
Or Germany, where people purely kiss. 

To thus much Adeline would not advance ; 
But of such friendship as man's may to man be 
She was as capable as woman can be. 

xciri. 
No doubt the secret influence of the sex 

Will there, as also in the ties of blood, 
An innocent predominance annex, 

And tune the concord to a finer mood. 
If free from passion, which all friendship 
checks, 

And your true feelings fully understood, 
No friend like to a woman earth discovers, 
So that you have not been nor will be lovers. 



Love bears within its breast the very germ 
Of change ; and how should this be otherwise? 

That violent things more quickly find a term 
Is shown through nature's whole analogies 

And how should the most fierce of all be firm? 
Would you have endless lightnings in the 
skies? 

Methinks Love's very title says enough : 

How should the tender passion ere be tough't 



Had Buonaparte won at Waterloo, 

Tt had been firmness ; now 'tis pertinacity; 

Must the event decide between the two ? 
I 'euve it to your people of sagarity 



Alas ! by all experience, seldom yet [many 
(I merely quote what I have heard front 

Had lovers not some reasor to regret 

The passion which made Solomon a zany. 



488 



DON JUAN. 



I've also seen some wives (not to forget 

The marriage state, the best or worst of any) 
Who were the very paragons of wives, 
Vet made the misery of at least two lives. 

XCVI 

I 've also seen some female friends ('tis odd, 

But true — as, if expedient, I could prove) 
That faithful were through thick and thin 
abroad, 

At home, far more than ever yet was Love — ' 
Who did not quit me when Oppression trod 

Upon me ; whom no scandal could remove ; 
Who fought, and fight, in absence, too, my 

battles, 
Despite the snake Society's loud rattles. 

xcvu. 
Whether Don Juan and chaste Adeline 

Grew friends in this or any other sense, 
Will be discuss'd hereafter, I opine: 

At present I am glad of a pretence 
To leave them hovering, as the effect is fine, 

And keeps the atrocious reader in suspense: 
The surest way for ladies and for books 
To bait their tender or their tenter hooks. 

XCVIII. 
Whether they rode, or walk'd, or studied 
Spanish 

To read Don Quixote in the original, 
A pleasure before which all others vanish ; 

Whether their talk was of the kind call'd 
" small," 
Or serious, are the topics I must banish 

To the next Canto; where perhaps I shall 
Say something to the purpose, and display 
Considerable talent in my way. 

XCIX. 

Above all, I beg all men to forbear 

Anticipating aught about the matter. 
They'll only make mistakes about the fair 

And Juan too, especially the latter. 
And 1 shall take a much more serious air, 

Than I have yet done, in this epic satire. 
It is not clear that Adeline and Juan 
Will fall ; but if they do, 'twill be their ruin. 

c. 
But great things spring from little: — Would 
you think, 

That in our youth, as dangerous a passion 
As e'er brought man and woman to the brink 

Of ruin, rose from such a slight occasion, 
As few would ever dream could form the link 

Of such a sentimental situation ? 
You'll never guess, I'll bet yon millions, 

milliards — 
It all sprung from u harmless game atbilliardo. 



'Tis strange, — but true; for truth is alwayi 
strange ; 

Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, 
How much would novels gain by the ex- 
change! [hold! 

How differently the world would men be- 
How oft would vice and virtue places change ! 

The new world would be nothing to the old, 
If some Columbus of the moral seas 
Would show mankind their souls' antipodes. 

en. 
What " antres vast and deserts idle " then 

Would be discover'd in the human soul ! 
What icebergs in the hearts of mighty men, 

With self-love in the centre as their pole ! 
What Anthropophagi are nine of ten 

Of those who hold the kingdoms in control '. 
Were things but only call'd by their right name, 
Caesar himself would be ashamed of fame. 



Bon 3}uan. 



CANTO THE FIFTEENTH. 



Ah ! — What should follow slips from my r<» 
flection ; 
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be 
As a-propos of hope or retrospection, 

As though the lurking thought had follow'd 
free. 
All present life is but an interjection, 

An " Oh ! " or " Ah!" of joy or misery, 
Or a "Ha! ha!" or "Bah!" — a yawn, or 

"Pooh!" 
Of which perhaps the latter is most true. 

ii. 
But, more or less, the whole's a syncope 

Or a singultus — emblems of emotion, 
The grand antithesis to great ennui, 

Wherewith we break our bubbles on tba 
ocean, 
That watery outline of eternity, 

Or miniature at least, as is my notion , 
Which ministers unto the soul's delight, 
In seeing matters which are out of sight. 

in 
But all are better than the sigh supprest, 

Corroding in the cavern of the heart, 

Making the countenance a masque of re»i y 

Ami turning human nature to an art. 



DON JUAN. 



489 



Few men dare show their thoughts of worse 
or best ; 
Dissimulation always sets apart 
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction 
Is that which passes with least contradiction. 

IV. 

Ah ! who can tell ? Or rather, who can not 
Remember, without telling, passion's errors? 

The drainer of oblivion, even the sot, 

Hath got. blue devils for his morning mirrors: 

What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float, 
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors: 

The ruby glass that shakes within his hand 

Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand. 



And as for love — O love ! We will proceed. 

The Lady Adeline Amundeville, 
A pretty name as one Avould wish to read, 

Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill. 
There's music in the sighing of a reed; 

There's music in the gushing of a rill ; 
There's music in all things, if men had cars: 
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres. 

VI. 

The Lady Adeline, right honourable, 

And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so; 

For few of the soft sex are very stable [so! 
In their resolves — alas ! that I should say 

They differ as wine differs from its label, [so, 
When once decanted ; — I presume to guess 

But will not swear: yet both upon occasion, 

Till old, may undergo adulteration, 



But Adeline was of the purest vintage, 

The unmingled essence of the grape; and yet 

Bright as a new Napoleon from its mintage, 
Or glorious as a diamond richly set; 

A page where Time should hesitate to print age, 
And for which Nature might forego her 
debt — 

Sole creditor whose process doth involve in't 

The luck of finding every body solvent. 



Death ! thou dunnest of all duns! thou daily 
Knockest at doors, at first with modest tap, 

Like a meek tradesman when, approaching 
palely, 
Some splendid debtor he would take by sap: 

But oft denied, as patience 'gins to fail* he 
Advances with exasperated rap, 

Anil (if let in) insists, in terms unhandsome, 

On :eady money, or " a draft on Ransom." 



Whate'er thou takest, spare a while pool 
Beauty ! 

She is so rare, and thou hast so much prey. 
What though she now and then may slip from 
duty, 

The more 's the reason why you ought to stay. 
Gaunt Gourmand! with whole nations foryoui 
booty, 

You should be civil in a modest way: 
Suppress, then, some slight feminine diseases, 
And take as many heroes as Heaven pleases 

x. 
Fair Adeline, the more ingenuous 

Where she was interested (as was said), 
Because she was not apt, like some of us, 

To like too readily, or too high bred 
To show it — (points we need not now discuss) — ■ 

Would give up artlessly both heart and head 
Unto such feelings as seem'd innocent. 
For objects worthy of the sentiment. 

XI. 

Some part of Juan's history, which Rumour, 
That live gazette, had scatter'd to disfigure, 

She had heard; but women hear with moie 
good humour 
Such aberrations than we men of rigour: 

Besides, his conduct, since in England, grew 

more [vigour 

Strict, and his mind assumed a manliei 

Because he had, like Alcibiades, 

The art of living in all climes with ease. 



His manner was perhaps the more seductive, 
Because he ne'er seem'd anxious to seduce ; 

Nothing affected, studied, or construrtive 
Of coxcombry or conquest: no abuse 

Of his attractions marr'd the fair perspective 
To indicate a Cupidon broke loose, 

And seem to say, " Resist us if you c\n " — 

Which makes a dandy while it spoils a man. 

XIII. 
They are wrong — that's not the way to se 
about it ; 

As , if they told the truth, could well be shown 
But, right or wrong, Don Juan was without it 

In fact, his manner was his own alone ; 
Sincere he was — at least you could not doubtil 

In listening merely to his voice's tone. 
The devil hath not in al! his quiver's choice 
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice. 

XIV. 

By nature soft, his \\ hole address held off 
Suspicion: though not timid, his regard 



490 



DON JUAN. 



Was such as rather seem'd to keep aloof, 

To shield himself than put you on your 
guard : 
Perhaps 'twas hardly quite assured enough, 

But modesty's at times its own reward, 
Like virtue ; and the absence of pretension 
Will go much farther than there's need to 
mention. 

xv. 
S u rene, accomplish'd, cheerful but not loud; 

Insinuating without insinuation ; 
Observant of the foibles of the crowd, 

Yet ne'er betraying this in conversation ; 
Proud with the proud, yet courteously proud, 

So as to make them feel he knew his station 
And theirs: — without a struggle for priority, 
He neither brook'd nor claim'd superiority. 

XVI 

That, is, with men: with women he was what 
They please to make or take him for ; and 
their 

Imagination's quite enough for that: 
So that the outline's tolerably fair, 

They fill the canvass up — and " verbum sat.' 
If once their phantasies be brought to bear 

Upon an object, whether sad or playful, 

Thev can transfigure brighter than a Ra- 
phael.!® 

XVII. 

Adeline, no deep judge of character, 

Was apt to add a colouring from her own: 

'Tis thus the good will amiably err, 

And eke the wise, as has been often shown. 

Experience is the chief philosopher, 

But saddest when his science is well known: 

And persecuted sages teach the schools 

Their folly in forgetting there are fools. 

XVIII. 

Was it not so, great Locke ? and greater 
Bacon? 

Great Socrates ? And thou, Diviner still, 
Whose lot it is by man to be mistaken, 

And thy pure creed made sanction of all ill? 
Redeeming worlds to be by bigots shaken, 

How was thy toil rewarded ? We might fill 
Volumes with similar sad illustrations, 
But leave them to the conscience of the nations. 

xix. 
I perch upon an humbler promontory, 

Amidst life's infinite variety: [glory, 

With no great care for what is nicknamed 

But speculating as I cast mine eye 
On what may suit or may not suit my story, 

And never straining hard to versify, 
f rattle on exactly as I 'd talk 
With any body in a ride or walk 



I don't know that there may be much ability 
Shown in this sort of desultory rhyme ; 

But there's a conversational facility, 

Which may round off an hour upon a time, 

Of this I'm sure at least, there's no servility. 
In mine irregularity of chime, 

Which rings what's uppermost of new or hoary 

Just as I feel the " Improvvisatore." 

XXI. 

" Omnia vult belle Matho dicere — die ali- 
quando 

Et bene, die neutrum, die aliquando male." 
The first is rather more than mortal can do ; 

The second may be sadly done or gaily ; 
The third is still more difficult to stand to ; 

The fourth we hear, and see, and say too, 
daily ; 
The whole together is what I could wish 
To serve in this conundrum of a dish. 

XXII. 

A modest hope — but modesty's my forte, 
And pride my feeble : — let us ramble on. 

I meant to make this poem very short, 

But now I can't tell where it may not run. 

No doubt, if I had wish'd to pay my court 
To critics, or to hail the setting sun 

Of tyranny of all kinds, my concision 

Were more ; — but I was born for opposition. 

xx ui. 

But then 'tis mostly on the weaker side ; 

So that 1 verily believe if they 
Who now are basking in their full-blown pride 

Were shaken down, and " dogs had had 
their day," 
Though at the first I might perchance deride 

Their tumble, I should turn the other way, 
And wax an ultra-royalist in loyalty, 
Because I hate even democratic royalty. 

XXIV. 

I think I should have made a decent spouse, 
If I had never proved the soft condition ; 

I think 1 should have made monastic vows, 
But for my own peculiar superstition : 

'Gainst rhyme I never should have knock'd 

my brows, [Pristian, 

Nor broken my own head, nor that of 

Nor worn the motley mantle af a poet, 

If some one had not told me to forego it 

XXV. 

But " laissez aller" — knights and dames I sing. 
Such as the times may furnish. 'Tis a flight 

Which seems at first to need no lofty wing 
Plumed by Longinus or the Stagyrite : 



DON JUAN. 



4 C J1 



The difficulty lies in eolturing 

(Keeping the due proportions still in sight) 
With nature manners whieh are artificial, 
And rend'ring general that which is especial. 



The difference is, that in the days of old 
Men made the manners ; manners now 
make men — [fold, 

Pinn'd like a flock, and fleeced too in their 
At least nine, and a ninth beside of ten. 

Now this at all events must render cold 
Your writer*, who must either draw again 

Days better drawn before, or else assume 

rhe present with their common place costume. 

XXVII. 

We '11 do our best to make the best on 't : — 

March! [flutter; 

March, my Muse ! If you cannot fly, yet 
And when you may not be sublime, be arch, 

Or starch, as are the edicts statesmen utter. 
We surely may find something worth research : 

Columbus found a new world in a cutter, 
Or brigantine, or pink, of no great tonnage, 
While yet America was in her non-age. 

XXVIII. 

When Adeline, in all her growing sense 
Of Juan's merits and his situation, 

Felt on the whole an interest intense, — 
Partly perhaps because a fresh sensation, 

Or that he had an air of innocence, 

Which is for innocence a sad temptation, — 

As women hate half measures, on the whole, 

She 'gan to ponder how to save his soul. 

XXIX. 

She had a good opinion of advice, 

Like all who give and eke receive it gratis, 
For which small thanks are still the market 
price, 
Even where the article at highest rate is : 
She thought upon the subject twice or thrice, 
And morally decided, the best state is [ried, 
For morals, marriage ; and this question car- 
She seriously advised him to get married. 



Juan replied, with all becoming deference, 
He had a predilection for that tie ; 

But that, at present, with immediate reference 
To his own circumstances, there might lie 

Some difficulties, as in his own preference, 
Or that ;f her to whom he might apply ; 

That still he'd wed with such or such a lady, 

vf that tliey were not manied all already. 



XXXI. 

Next to the making matches for herself. 

And daughters, brothers, sisters, kith or kin 
Arranging them like books on the same shelf, 

There's nothing women love to dabble in ' 
More (like a stock-holder in growing pelf) 

Than match making in general : 'tis no sin 
Certes, but a preventative, and therefore 
That is, no doubt, the only reason wherefore 

XXXII. 

But ne\er yet (except of course a miss 
Unwed, or mistress never to be wed, 

Or wed already, who object to this) [head 
Was there chaste dame who had not in her 

Some drama of the marriage unities, 

Observed as strictly both at board and bed, 

As those of Aristotle, though sometimes 

They turn out melodrames or pantomimes. 

XXXIII. 

They generally have some only son, 

Some heir to a large property, some friend 

Of an old family, some gay Sir John, 

Or grave Lord George, with whom per- 
haps might end 

A line, and leave posterity undone, 

Unless a marriage was applied to mend 

The prospect and their morals ; and besides, 

They have at hand a blooming glut of brides. 

XXXIV. 

From these they will be careful to select, 
For this an heiress, and for that a beauty. 

For one a songstress who hath no defect. 
For t' other one who promises much duty ; 

For this a lady no one can reject, [booty ; 
Whose sole accomplishments were quite u 

A second for her excellent connections ; 

A third, because there can be no objections. 

XXXV. 

When Rapp the Harmonist embargo'd mar- 
riage [flourishes 
In his harmonious settlement — (which 
Strangely enough as yet without miscarriage, 
Because it breeds no more mouths than it 
nourishes, 
Without those sad expenses which disparage 
What Nature naturally most encourages) — 
Why call'd he " Harmony" a state saas 

wedlock ? 
Now here I 've got the preacher at a deadlock 

XXXVI. 

Because he either meant to sneer at harmony 
Or marriage, by divorcing them thus oddly. 

But whether reverend Rapp learn'd thi* in 
Germany 
Or no, 'tis said his sect is rich and godly, 



492 



DON JUAN. 



Pious and pure, beyond what I can term any 
Of ours, although they propagate more 

broadly. 
My objection's to his title, cot his ritual, 
Although I wonder how it grew habitual. 

XXXVII. 

But Rapp is the reverse of zealous matrons, 
Who favour, malgre Malthus, generation — 

Professors of that genial art, and patrons 
Of all the modest part of propagation ; 

Which after all at such a desperate rate runs, 
That half its produce tends to emigration, 

That sad result of passions and potatoes — 

Two weeds which pose our economic Catos. 

XXXVIII. 

Had Adeline read Malthus? I can't tell; 

I wish she had ; his book s the eleventh 

commandment, [less well: 

Which says, " Thou shalt not marry," un- 

This he (as far as I can understand) meant. 
Tis not my purpose on his views to dwell, 

Nor canvass what " so eminent a hand" 
meant ; 
But certes it conducts to lives ascetic, 
Or turning marriage into arithmetic. 

XXXIX. 

But Adeline, who probably presumed 
That Juan had enough of maintenance, 

Or separate maintenance, in case 'twas 
doom'd — 
As on the whole it is an even chance 

That bridegrooms, after they are fairly groom d, 
May retrograde a little in the dance [fame, 

Of marriage — (which might form a painter's 

Like Holbein's " Dance of Death" — but 'tis 
the same) ; — 

XL. 

But Adeline determined Juan's wedding 
In her own mind, and that's enough for 
woman : [Miss Reading, 

But then, with whom.* There was the sage 
Miss Raw, Miss Flaw, Miss Showman, and 
Miss Knowman, 
And the two fair co-heiresses Giltbedding, 
She deem'd his merits something more than 
common : 
All these were unobjectionable matches, 
And might go on, if well wound up, like 
watches. 

XLI. 

There was Miss Millpond smooth as sum- 
mer's sea, 
That usual paragon, an only daughter, 
Who seem'd the cream of equanimity, 

Till skimm'd — and then there was some 
milk and water, 



With a slight shade of blue too, it might be 
Beneath the surface ; but what did it matter? 
Love'sriotous,butmarriage should have quiet, 
And being consumptive live on a milk diet. 

XLII. 

And then there was the Miss Audacia Shoe- 
string, 
A dashing demoiselle of good estate, 
Whose heart was fix'd upon a star or blue string; 

But whether E nglish dukes grew rare of late j 
Or that she had not harp'd upon the true 
string, 
By which such sirens can attract our great, 
She took up with some foreign younger 

brother, 
A Russ or Turk — the one 's as good as t' other. 

XLIII. 

And then there was — but why should I go on, 
Unless the ladies should go off? — there was 

Indeed a certain fair and fairy one, 

Of thebestclass, and better than her class, — 

Aurora Raby, a young star who shone 

O'er life, too sweet an image for such glass, 

A lovely being, scarcely form'd or moulded, 

A rose with all its sweetest leavf„ yet folded; 

XLIV. 

Rich, noble, but an orphan ; le* an only 
Child to the care of guardian^ >od and kind; 

But still her aspect had an air o lonely ! 
Blood is not water; andwhp> i shall we find 

Feelings of youth like tho* , which over- 
thrown lie 
By death, when we are lefl alas ! behind, 

To feel, in friendless palaces & home 

Is wanting, and our best ties in the tomb ? 

XLV. 

Early in years, and yet mor. infantjne 
In figure, she had someth iig of sublime 

In eyes which sadly shone, as seraphs' shine 
All youth — but with an aspect beyond lime; 

Radiant and grave — as pitying man's decline; 
Mournful — butmourni'u' of another's crime, 

She look'd as if she sat by Eden's door, 

And grieved forthose who < *mld return no more 

XLVI. 

She was a Catholic, too, oincer*, austere, 
As far as her own gentle heart allow'd, 

And deem'd that fallen worshij larmore deal 
Perhaps because 't was falleu : her sires were 
proud 

Of deeds and days when they had fill'd the eai 
Of nations, and had never bent or bow'd 

To novel power ; and as she was the last, 

She held their old faith and old eelings last 



DON JUAN 



493 



XLTII. 

She gazed upon a world she scarcely knew 
As seeking not to know it. ; silent, lone, 

As grows a flower, thus quietly she grew, 
And kept her heart serene within its zone. 

There was awe in the homage which she drew; 
Her spirit seein'd as seated on a throne 

apart 'from the surrounding world, and strong 

In its 'own strength — most strange in one so 
young I 

XLVIII. 

Now it so happen'd, in the catalogue 
Of Adeline, Aurora was omitted, 

Although her birth and wealth had given her 
vogue, 
Beyond the charmers we have already cited; 

Her beauty also seem'd to form no clog 
Against her being mention'd as well fitted 

By many virtues, to be worth the trouble 

Of single gentlemen who would be double. 

XLIX. 

And this omission, like that of the bust 
Of Brutus at the pageant of Tiberius, 

Made Juan wonder, as no doubt he must. 
This he express'd half smiling and half 
serious ; 

When Adeline replied with some disgust, 
And with an air, to say the least, imperious, 

She marvell'd " what he saw in such a baby 

As that prim, silent, cold Aurora Ruby? * 

L. 

Juan rejoin'd — " She was a Catholic, 

And therefore fittest, as of his persuasion ; 

Since lie was sure his mother would fall sick, 
And the Pope thunder excommunication, 

If " But here Adeline, who seem'd to pique 

Herself extremely on the inoculation 

Of others with her own opinions, stated — 

As usual — the same reason which she late did. 



And wherefore not? A reasonable reason, 
If <rood, is none the worse for repetition ; 

If bad, the best way 's certainly to tease on, 
And amplify : you lose much by concision, 

Whereas insisting in or out of season 
Convinces all men, even a politician ; 

Or — what is just the same — it wearies out. 

So the end's gain'd, what signifies the route? 

LII. 

Why Adeline had this slight prejudice — 
For prejudice it was — against a creature 

As pure as sanctity itself from vice, 

With all the added charm of form and 'ea- 
ture, 



Forme appears a question far too nice, 

Since Adeline was liberal by nature; 
But nature's nature, and has more cuprtaei 
Than I have time, or will, to take to pieces. 

LIU. 
Perhaps she did not like the quiet way 

With which Aurora on those baubles look'd, 
Which charm most people in their earlier day*. 

For there are few things by mankind less 
brook'd, 
And womankind too, if we so may say, 

Than finding thus their genius stand rebuked. 
Like '"Anthony's by Caisar," by the few 
Who look upon them as they ought to do 

LIT. 

It was not envy — Adeline had none ; 

Her place was far beyond it, and her mind. 
It was not scorn — which could not light on one 

Whose greatest/a ult was leaving few to find. 
It was not jealousy, I think : but shun 

Following the " ignes fatui" of mankind. 

It was not but 'tis easier far, alas ! 

To say what it was not than what it was. 

LV. 

Little Aurora deem'd she was the theme 

Of such discussion. She was there a guest; 
A beauteous ripple of the brilliant stream 

Of rank and youth, though purer than the 
rest, 
Which flow d on for a moment in the beam 

Time sheds a moment o'er each sparkling 
crest. smiled — 

Had she known this, she would have calmly 
She had so much, or little, of the child. 

LTI. 
The dashing and proud air of Adeline 

Imposed not upon her : she saw her blaze 
Much as she would have seen a glow-worm 
shine, 

Then mra'd unto the stars for loftier rays. 
Juan was something she could not divine, 

Being no sibyl in the new world's ways ; 
Yet she was nothing dazzled by the meteor 
Because she did not pin her faith on feature. 

LVII. 

His fame too, — for he had that kind of fame 
Which sometimes plays the deuce with 
womankind, 

A heterogeneous mass of glorious blame. 
Halfvirtuesand whole vices being combinoa, 

Faults which attract because they are not tarn* ; 
Follies trick'd out so brightly that they 
blind:— 

These seals upon her wax made no impression, 

Such was her coldness or her self-possessiou 



494 



DON JUAN. 



I.VI1I. 

Juan knew nought of such a character — 
High, yet resembling not his lost Haidee ; 

Vet each was radiant in her proper sphere: 
The island girl, bred up by the lone sea, 

More warm, as lovely, and not less sincere, 
Was Nature's all : Aurora could not be, 

Nor would be thus : — the difference in them 

Was such as lies between a llower and gem. 

LIX. 

Having wound upwith this sublime comparison, 
Methinks we may proceed upon our nana- 
tive, [warison;" 

And, as my friend Scott says, I sound my 
Scott, the superlative of my comparative — 
Scott, who can paint your Christian knight or 
Saracen, 
Serf, lord, man, with such skill as none 
would share it, if 
There had notbeen one Shakspeare and Voltaire, 
Of one or both of whom he seems the heir. 

LX. 

I say, in my slight way I may proceed 
To play upon the suriace of humanity. 

I write the world, nor care if tbe world read, 
At least for this I cannot spare its vanity. 

My Muse hath bred, and stdl perhaps may 

breed [it, I 

More foes by this same scroll: when 1 began 

Thought that it might turn out so — now I 
know it, 

But still I am, or was, a pretty poet. 

LXI. 

The conference or congress (for it ended 
As congresses of late do) of the Lady 

Adeline and Don Juan rather blended 
Some acids with the sweets — for she was 
heady; 

But, ere the matter could be marr'd or mended, 
The silvery bell rang, not for "dinner ready," 

But for that hour, call'd half-hour, given to 
dress, 

Though ladies* robes seem scant enough for less. 

LXlI. 

Great things were now to be achieved at table 

With massy plate for armour, knives and 

forks [able 

For weapons ; but what Muse since Homer's 
(His feasts are not the worst part of his works) 

To draw up in array a single day-bill 

Of modern dinners ? where more mystery 
lurks, 

In soups or sauces, or a sole ragout, 

Than witches* b — dues, or physicians, brew. 



LXIII. 
There was a gooiiy "soupe a \nbomie femmc,' 
Though God knows whenee it can e from . 
there was, too, 
A turbot for relief of those who cram, 
Relieved with "dindon a la Parigeux ; 

There also was the sinner that I am ! 

How shall I get this gourmand siana* 
through? — 
"Soupe a la Beauveau." whose relief was dory, 
Relieved itself by pork, for greater glory. 



But I must crowd all into one grand mess 
Or mass, for should I stretch into detail, 

My Muse would run much more into excess, 
Than when some squeamish people deem 
her frail ; 

But though a 'bonne vivante," I must confess 
Her stomach 'snot her peccant part; this tale 

However doth require some slight refection. 

Just to relieve her spirits from dejection. 

LXV. 

Fowls "a la Conde," slices eke of salmon, 

With " suuees Genevoises," and haunch o* 

venison ; [young Ammon — 

Wines, too, which might again have slain 

A man like whom I hope we shan't see 

many soon ; 

They also set a glazed Westphalian ham on, 

Whereon Apicius would bestow his benison; 

And then there was champagne with foani'ng 

whirls, 
As white as Cleopatra's melted pearls. 

LXVI. 

Then there was God knows what " a 1'Alle 

mande," [con" — 

" A l'Espagnole," " timballe," and " salpi- 

With things I can't withstand or understand, 

Though swallow'd with much zest upon the 

whole ; 

And " entremets" to piddle with at hand, 

Gently to lull down the subsiding soul ; 
While great Lucullus' Robe triumphal muf 
lies — [with truffles, 

{There 's fame) — young partridge fillets, deck'd 



What are the fillets on the victor's brow 
To these? They are rags or dust. Where i» 
the arch 
Which nodded to the nation's spoils be ow ? 
Where the triumphal chariots' haughtj 
march ? 



DON JUAN. 



495 



Gone to where victories must like dinners go. 

Farther I .shall not follow the research : 
But oh! ye modern heroes with your cartridges, 
When <vill your names lend lustre e'en to 
partridges ? 

LXVIII. 

Those trufiles too are no bad accessories, 
Follow' d by " petits puits d' amour " — adish 

Of which perhaps the cookery rather varies, 
So every one may dress it to his wish, 

According to the best of dictionaries, 

Which encyclopedize both flesh and fish ; 

But even sans " confitures," it no less true is, 

1 here 's -pretty picking in those "petits puits." 

LXIX. 

The mind is lost in mighty contemplation 
Of intellect expanded on two courses; 

And indigestion's grand multiplication 
Requires arithmetic beyond my forces. 

Who would suppose.from Adam's simple ration, 
That cookery could have call'd forth such 
resources, 

As form a science and a nomenclature 

From out the commonest demands of nature ? 

LXX. 

The glasses jingled, and the palates tingled; 

The diners of celebrity dined well ; 
The ladies with more moderation mingled 

In the feast, pecking less than I can tell: 
Also the younger men too : lor a springald. 

Can't, like ripe age, in gormandize excel, • 
But thinks less of good eating than the whisper . 
JWhen seated next him) of some pretty lisper. 

LXXI. 

Alas! I must leave undescribed the gibier, 
The salmi, the consomme, the puree, 

All which I use to make my rhymes run glibber 
Than could roast beef i-n our rough John 
Bull way: 

f must not introduce even a spare rib here, 
"Bubble and squeak" would spoil my liquid 
lay, 

But I have dined, and must forego, alas! 

The chaste description even of a " becasse ;" 

LXXII. 

And fruits, and ice, and all that art refines 
From nature for the service of the gout — 

Taste or the gout, — pronounce it as inclines 
Your stomach! Ere you dine, the French 
will do; 

But after, there are sometimes certain signs 
Which prove plain English truer of the two. 

Hast ever had the gout ? I have not bad it — 

But I may have, and you too, reader, dread it. 



I XXIII. 

The simple olives, best allies of wine, 
Must I pass over in my bill of fare? 

I must, although a favourite "plat" of mine 
In Spain, and Lucca, Athens, every where 

On them and bread 'twas oft my luck to dine 
'the grass my table-cloth, m open air, 

On Sunium or Hymettus, like Diogenes, 

Of whom half my philosophy the progeny is 

LXXIV. 

Amidst this tumult of fish, flesh, and fowl, 
And vegetables, all in masquerade, 

The guests were placed according to their roll, 
But various as the various meats display 'd; 

Don Juan sat next an " a 1'Espagnole " — 
No damsel, but a dish, as hath been said; 

But so far like a lady, that 'twas drest 

Superbly, and contain'd a world of zest. 

LXXV. 

By some odd chance too, he was placed between 

Aurora and the Lady Adeline — 
A situation difficult, I ween, 

For man therein, with eyes and heart, to dine. 
Also the conference which we have seen 

Was not such as to encourage him to shine, 
For Adeline, addressing few words to him, 
With two transcendent eyes seem'd to look 
through him. 

LXXVI. 

I sometimes almost think that eyes have ears • 
This much is sure, that, out of earshot, things 

Are somehow echoed to the pretty dears, 
Of which I can't tell whence their knowledge 
springs. 

Like that same mystic music of the spheres, 
Which noonehkirs, so loudly though itrings, 

'T is wonderful how oft the sex have heard 

Long dialogues — which pass'd without a word ' 

LXXV 1 1. 

Aurora sat with that indifference 

Which piques apreux chevalier — as it ought- 
Of all offences that's the worst offence, 

Which seems to hint you are not worth a 
thought. 
Now Juan, though no coxcomb in pretence, 

Was not exactly pleased to be so caught; 
Like a good ship entangled among ice, 
And after so much excellent advice. 

LXXV I II. 

To his gav nothings, nothing was replied, 
Or something which was nothing, asurbanitc 

Required. Aurora scarcely look'd aside, 
Nor even smiled enough for any canity. 



496 



DON JUAN. 



The devil was in the girl ! Could it be pride? 

Or modesty, or absence, or inanity ? 
Heaven knows ! But Adeline's malicious eyes 
Sparkled with her successful prophecies, 

LXXIX. 

And look'd as much as it' to say, " I said it ; " 
A kind of triumph I '11 not recommend, 

Because it sometimes, as I have seen or read it, 
Both in the case of lover and of friend, 

Will pique a gentleman, for his own credit, 
To bring what was a jest to a serious end : 

For all men prophesy what is or was, 

And hate those who won't let them come to pass. 

LXXX. 

Juan was drawn thus into some attentions, 
Slight but select, and just enough to express, 

To females of perspicuous comprehensions, 
That he would rather make them more than 
less. 

Aurora at the last (so history mentions, 

Though probably much less a fact than guess) 

So far relax'd her "thoughts from their sweet 
prison, 

As once or twice to smile, if not to listen. 

LXXXI. 

From answering she began to question : this 
With her was rare ; and Adeline, who as yet 

Thought her predictions went not much amiss,' 
Began to dread she 'd thaw to a coquette — 

So very difficult, they say, it is 

To keep extremes from meeting, when once set 

In motion ; but she here too much refined — 

Aurora's spirit was not of that kind. 

LXXXII. 

But Juan had a sort of winning way, 
A proud humility, if such there be, 
Which show'd such deference to what females 
say, 
As if each charming word were a decree. ' 
His tact, too, temper'd him from grave to gay, 
• And taught him when to be reserved or free : 
He had the art of drawing people out, 
Wimout taeiT seeing what ne was aoout. 

LXXXIII. 

Aurora, who in her indifference 

Confounded him in common with the crowd 

Of flatterers, though she deem'd he had more 

sense [loud — 

Than whispering fophngs, or than witlings 
Commenced (from such slight things will great 
commence) 

To feel that flattery which attracts the proud, 
"Rather by deference than compliment, 
4.nd wins even by a delicate dissent. 



LXXXIV. 

And then he had good looks; — that point was 
carried 

Ncm. con. amongst the women, which I grieve 
Tosayleadsofttocriw. con. with the married — 

A case which to th« juries "we may leave, 
Since with digressions we too long havetarried, 

Now though weknow of oldthatlooks deceive, 
And always have done, somehow these good 

looks 
Make more impression than the best of books. 

LXXXV. 

Aurora, who look'd more on books than faces, 
Was very young, although so very sage. 

Admiring more Minerva than the Graces, 
Especially upon a pnnted page. 

But Virtue's self, with all her tightest laces, 
Has not ihe natural stays of strict old age ; 

And Socrates, that model of all duty, 

Own'd to apenchant, though discreet,for beauty 

LXXXVI. 

And girls of sixteen are thus far Socratic, 

But innocently so, as Socrates; 
And really, if the sage sublime and Attic 

At seventy years had phantasies like these 
Which Plato in his dialogues dramatic 

Has shown, I know not why they should 
displease 
In virgins — always in a modest way, 
Observe ; for that with me 's a " sine qua." 170 

LXXXVII. 

Also observe, that, like the great Lord C«ke 
(See Littleton), whene'er I have express'd 

Opinions two, which at first sight may look 
Twin opposites, the second is the best. 

Perhaps I have a third too, in a nook, 

Or none at all — which seems a sorry jest: 

But if a writer should be quite consistent, 

How could he possibly show things existent? 

LXXXVIII. 

If people contradict themselves, can I 

Help contradicting them, and every body, 

Even my veracious soil? — But that's a lie: 
I never did so, never will — how should I? 

He who doubts all things nothing can deny: 
Truth's fountains may be clear — her streams 
are muddy, 

And cut through such canals of contradiction, 

That she must often navigate o'er fiction. 

LXXXIX. 

Apologue, fable, poesy, and parable, 

Are false, but may be render'd also true, 

By those wh i sow them in a land that 's arable. 
'T is wonderful what fable will not do ! 



DON JUAN. 



49 7 



I* i« -u\A it makes reality more bearable: 

B,«f wnat's reality ? Who has its clue? 
Philosophy? No: she too much rejects. 
Reliyton? Yei; but which of all her sects? 



Son emillionsmust be wrong,that's pretty clear; 

I erhaps it may turn out that all were right. 
Go i help us '. Since we have need on our career 

'Co keep our holy beacons always bright, 
T is time that some new prophet should appear, 

Or old indulge man with a second sight. 
Opinions wear out in some thousand years, 
Without a small refreshment from the spheres. 



But here again, why will I thus entangle 
Myself with metaphysics? None can hate 

So much as 1 do any kind of wrangle ; 
And yet, such is my folly, or my fate, 

I always knock my head against some angle 
About the present, past, or future state : 

Yet I wish well to Trojan and to Tyrian, 

For I was bred a moderate Presbyterian. 



liul though I am a temperate theologian, 
And also meek as a metaphysician, 

Impartial between Tyrian and Trojan 
As Eldon on a lunatic commission, — 

In politics my duty is to show John 

Bull something of the lower world's condition. 

It makes my blood boil like the springs of 
Heela,"! [law. 

To see men let these scoundrel sovereigns break 

xcni 
But politics, and policy, and piety, 

Are topics which I sometimes introduce, 
Not only for the sake of their variety, 

But as subservient to a moral use ; 
Because my business is to dress society, 

And stuff with sage thai very verdant goose. 
And now, that we may furnish with some 

matter all 
Tastes, we are going to try the supernatural. 

XCIV. 

And now I will give up all argument; 

And positively henceforth no temptation 
Snail "fool me to the top up of my bent'" — 

Yes, I'll begin a thorough reformation. 
Indeed, I never knew what people meant 

By deeming that my Muse's conversation 
Was dangerous ; — I think she is as harmless 
As some who labour more and yet may charm 
less. 



Grim leader! did you ever see a ghost? 

No; but you have heard — I understand— 
be dumb ! 
And don't regret the time you may have lost, 

For you have got that pleasure still to come 
And do not think I mean to sneer at most 

Of these things, or by ridicule benumb 
That source of the sublime and the mysterious : — 
For certain reasons my belief is serious. 

XCVI. 

Serious? You laugh; — youmay: that will I not, 
My smiles must be sincere or not at all. 

I say I do believe a haunted spot 

Exists — und where ? That shall I not recall, 

Because I 'd rather it should be forgot, 

" Shadows the soul of Richard " may appal. 

In short.upon that subject I "ve some qualms very 

Like those of the philosopher of Mahnsbury. 

XCVIL. 

The night — (I singby night — sometimes an owl, 
And now and then a nightingale) — is dim, 

And the loud shriek of sage Minerva's fowl 
Rattles around me her discordant hymn : 

Old portraits from old walls upon me scowl — 
1 wish to heaven they would not look so grim; 

The dying embers dwindle in the grate — 

I think too that I have sate up too late : 

XCVIII. 

And therefore, though 'tis by no means my 
way [things 

To rhyme at noon — when I have other 
To think of, if I ever think — I say 

I feel some chilly midnight shudderings, 
And prudently postpone, until. mid-day, 

Treating a topic which, alas! but brings 
Shadows ; — but you must be in my condition 
Before you learn to call this superstition. 

xcix. 
Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
T wixt night and morn, upon the horizon s 
Verge 
How little do we know that which we are ! 
How less what we may be ! The eternal 
surge 
On time and tide rolls on and bears afar 

Our bubbles ; as the old burst, new emerge, 
Lash'd from the foam of age*. ; while lb* 

graves 
Of empires heave b r t like some passing waves 



33 



2k 



498 



DON JUAN. 



Bon 3iuan. 



CANTO THB SIXTEENTH. 



The antique Persians taught three useful 
things, [truth. 

To draw the bow, to ride, and speak the 
This was the mode of Cyrus, best of kings — 

A mode adopted since by modern youth. 
Bows have they, generally with two strings ; 

Horses they ride without remorse or ruth ; 
At speaking truth perhaps they are less clever, 
But draw the long bow better now than ever. 

ii. 

The cause of this effect, or this defect, — 
" Forthis effect defective comes by cause," — 

Is what I have not leisure to inspect ; 

But this I must say in my own applause, 

Of all the Muses that I recollect, 

Whate'er may be her follies or her flaws 

In some things, mine's beyond all contradic- 
tion 

The most sincere that ever dealt in fiction. 

in. 

And as she treats all things, and ne'er retreats 
From any thing, this epic will contain 

A wilderness of the most rare conceits, [vain. 
Which you might elsewhere hope to find in 

T is true there be some bitters with the sweets, 
Yet mix'd so slightly, that you can't com- 
plain, • 

But wonder they so few are, since my tale is 

" De rebus cunctis et quibusdam aliis." 

IV. 

But of all truths which she has told, the mos' 
True is that which she is about to tell. 

I said it was a story of a ghost — 

What then ? I only know it so befell. 

Have you explored the limits of the coast, 
Where all the dwellers of the earth must 
dwell ? [as 

Tis time to strike such puny doubters dumb 

The sceptics who would not believe Columbus. 

v. 

Some people would impose now with authority, 
Turpin's or Monmouth Geoffry'sChroni 'le ; 

Men wiiose historical superiority 
Is ai <vays greatest at a miracle. 



But Saint Augustine has the grct.t priority, 
Who bids all men believe the impossible. 
Because 'tis so. Who nibble scribble, qui*. 

ble, he 
Quiets at once with " quia impossibile.'" 

VI. 

\nd therefore, mortals, cavil not at all ; 

Believe: — if 'tis improbable, you must, 
And if it is impossible, you shall : 

'Tis always best to take things upon trust. 
I do not speak profanely, to recall [jusl 

Those holier mysteries which the wise and 
Beceiveas gospel, and which grow more rooted, 
As all truths must, the more they aie disputed : 



I merely meant to say what Johnson said, 
That in the course of some six thousand 
years, 

All nations have believed that from the dead 
A visitant at intervals apjiears ; 

And what is strangest upon this strange head. 
Is, that whatever bar the reason rears [still 

'Gainst such belief, there's something strongec 

In its behalf, let those deny who will. 



The dinner and the soiree too were done, 
The supper too discuss'd, the dames admired, 

The banqueteers haddropp'd off one by one— 
The song was silent, and the dance expired: 

The last thin petticoats were vanish'd, gone 
Like fleecy clouds into the sky retired, 

And nothing brighter gleam'd through th« 
saloon 

Than dying tapers — and the peeping moon 

IX. 

The evaporation of a joyous day 

Is like the last glass of champagne, withou 
The foam which made its virgin bumper gay ; 

Or like a system coupled with a doubt ; 
Or like a soda bottle when its spray 

Has sparkled and let half its spirit out ; 
Or like a oiiiow left by storms behind, 
Without the animation of the wind ; 

X. 

Or like an opiate, which brings troubled rest 
Or none; or like — like nothing that ( 
know 

Except itself; — such is the human breast; 
A thing, of which similitudes can show 

No real likeness, — like the old Tyrian vest 
Dyed purple, none at present can tell \u.m . 

If from a shell-lish or from cochineal. 1 * 2 

So perish every tyrant's robe piecemeal ! 



DON JUAN. 



4 ( J9 



XI. 

Dot next t-> dressing for a rout or ball, 

Undressing is a woe ; our robe de ehambre 

May sit like that oi'Ncssus, and recall 

Thoughts quite as yellow, but less clear 
than amber, 

Titus exclaim'd, " I've lost aday !*' Of all 
The nights and days most people can re- 
member, 

{I have had of both, some not to be disdain'd 

1 wish they d state how many they have gain' . 

xn. 

And Juan, on retiring !br the night, [i .sed : 
Felt, restless, and perplex'd, and .ompro- 

He thought Aurora Raby's eyes mo. e bright 
Than Adeline (such is advice) advis '• 

If he had known exactly his o n plig!.., 
He probably would have philosophised ■ 

A great resource to all nd ne'er denied 

Til', wanted ; ti*» iorc Juan only sigh'd. 

XIII. 

fie sigh'd ; — the next resource is the full moon, 
Where all sighs are deposited ; and now 

It happen'd luckily, the chaste orb shone 
As clear as such a climate will allow ; 

And Juan's mind was in the proper tone 
To hail her with the apostrophe — " O thou !" 

Of amatory egotism the Tuism, 

Which further to explain would be a truism. 

xiv. 

But. lover, poet, or astronomer, 

Shepherd, or swain, whoever mav hdhold, 
Feel some abstraction when they gaze on her : 

Great thoughts we catch from thence (be- 
sides a cold 
Sometimes, unless my feelings rather err) ; 

Deep secrets to her rolling light are told ; 
The ocean's tides and mortals' brains she sways, 
And also hearts, if there be truth in lays. 

xv 

Juan felt somewhat pensive, and disposed 
For contemplation rather than his pillow: 

The Gothic chamber, where he was enclosed, 
Let in the rippling sound of the lake's billow, 

With all the mystery by midnight caused : 
Below this window waved (of course) a 
willow ; 

And he stood gazing out on the cascade 

That flash'd and after da.-*en'd in the f-ha lc. 



Upon his table or his toilet, — which 
Of these is not exactly ascertain <1, — 

(I state this, for I am cautious to a pitch 
Of nicety, where a ''act is tube gain'd.1 



A lamp burn'd high, while he leant from » 
niche, 
Where many a Gothic ornament remain'd 
In chisell'd stone and painted glass, and all 
Th t time has left our fathers of their hall. 



Then, as the night was clear though cold, he 

threw ,[ forth 

His chamber door wide open — an^ went 

Into a gallery, of a sombre hue [worth, 

Long, furnish'd with oW pictures of great 

Of knights and dames heroic and chaste too, 

As doubtless shoJa be people of high birth 

But by dim lights the portraits of the dead 

Have aomethi g ghastly, desolate, and dread. 

xvm 
J he forms of the grim knight and pictured 
saint 
Look living in the moon ; and as you turn 
Backward and forward to the echoes faint 

Of your own footsteps — voices from the urn 

Appear to wake, and shadows wild and quaint 

Start from the frames which fence then 

aspects stern, 

As if to ask how you can dare to keep 

A vigil there, where all but death should sleep. 

xix. 
And the pale smile of beauties in the grave, 
The charms of other days, in starlight 
gleams, 
Glimmer on high ; their buried locks still wave 
Along the canvass ; their eyes glance like 
dreams 
On ours, or spars within some dusky cave, 

But death is imaged in their shadowy beams. 
A picture is the past ; even ere its frame 
Be gilt, who sate hath ceased to be the same. 

XX. 

As Juan mused on mutability 

Or on his mistress — terms synonymous — 
No sound except the echo of his sigh 

Or step ran sadly through that antique 
house ; 
When suddenly he heard, or thought so, nigh, 

A supernatural agent — or a mouse, 
Whose little nibbling rustle will embarrass 
Most people as it plays along the arras. 

XXI. 

It was no mouse, but lo ! a monk, array *d 
In cowl and beads, and dusky garb, ap> 
pear'd, 
Now in t: emoonlignt, ananowvapsed insnade 
With s>teps thai trod as heavy, \et unheard ; 
S k 2 



500 



DON JUAN. 



His garments only a slight murmur made ; 

He moved as shadowy as the sisters weird, 
Bat slowly ; and as he passed Juan by, 
Glanced, without pausing, on him a bright eye. 

XXII. 

Juan was petrified ; he had heard a hint 
Of such a spirit in these halls r>f old, [in't 

But thought, like most men, there, .vas nothing 
Beyond the rumour which such spots im 
fold, 

Coin'd from surviving superstition's mint, 
Which passes ghosts in currency like gold, 

But rarely seen, like gold compared with paper. 

And did he see this ? or was it a vapour? 

XXIII. 

Once, twice, thrice pass'd, repass'd — the thing 
of air, 

Or earth beneath, or heaven, or t' other place : 
And Juan gazed upon it with a stare, 

Yet could not speak or move ; but, on its base 
As stands a statue, stood : he felt his hair 

Twine like a knot of snakes around his face; 
He tax'd his tongue for words, which were not 

granted, 
To ask the reverend person what he wanted. 

XXIV. 

The third time, after a still longer pause, 
The shadow pass'd away — but where ? the 
hall \ 

Was long, and thus far there was no great cause ■ 
To think his vanishing unnatural: [laws 

Doors there were many, through which, by the • 
Of .physics, bodies whether short or tall 

Might come or go ; but Juan could not state 

Through which the spectre seem'd to evaporate. 

XXV. 

He stood — how long he knew not, but it- 
seem'd [eyes 

An age — expectan'., powerless, with his 
Strain'd on the spot where first tne figure 
gleam'd ; 

Then by degrees recall'd his energies, 
Ami would have pass'd the whole o ff as a dream, 

But could not wake ; he was, he did surmise, 
Waking already, and leturn'd at length 
/ittci; to his "bjunber, shorn of half his strength, 

XX I. 

All there was aa Le ieft it : still his taper 
Burnt, and not blue, as modest tapers use, 

Receiving sprites with sympathetic vapour; 
He rubb'd his eyes, and they did not refuse 

Their office: he took up an old newspaper; 
The paper was right easy to peruse ; 

He read an aiticle the king attacking, 

And a long eUogy of " patent blacking." 



XXVII. 

This savour'd of this world; buthishand shook' 
He shut his door, and after having read 

A paragraph, I think about Home Tooke, 
Undrest, andttather slowly went to bed. 

There, couch'd all snugly on his pillow's nook, 
With what he had seen his phantasy he fed; 

And though it was no opiate, slumber crept 

Upon him by degrees, and so he slept. 

XXVIII. 

He wont; uetimes; and, as may be supposed, 
Ponder' a "vn his visitant or vision, 

And whether k night not to be disclosed, 
At risk of being quizz'd for superstition. 

The more he thought, tbe more his mind was 



In the mean time, his valet, whose precision 
Was great, because his master brook'd no less, 
Knock'd to inform him it was time t r ^ress. 

XXIX. 

He dress'd; and like young people he was wont 
To take some trouble with his toilet, but 

This morning rather spent less time upon V 
Aside his very mirror soon was put ; 

His curls fell negligently o'er his front, [cut. 
His clothes were not ourb'd to their usual 

His very neckcloth's Gordian knot was tied 

Almost an hair's breath too much on one side. 



A.nd when he walk'd down into the saloon, 
He sate him pensive o'er a dish of tea, 

Which he perhaps had not discover'd soon, 
Had it not happen'd scalding hot to be, 

Which made him have recourse unto his spoon; 
So much distrait he was, that all could see 

That something was the matter — Adeline 

The first — but what she could not well divine, 

XXXI. 

She look'd, and saw him pale, and turn'd as 
pale [ mutter 'd 

Herself; then hastily look'd down, and 
Something, but what 's not stated in my tale. 

Lord Henry said, his muffin was ill butter a. 
The Duchess of Fitz-Fulkeplay'd with her vei". 

And look'd at Juan hard, but nothing utter d 
Aurora Raby with her large darK eyes 
Survey'd him with a kind of calm surprise. 

XXXII. 

But seeing him all cold and silent still, 
And every body wondering more or less, 

Fair Adeline inquired, " If he were ill ?" 
He started, and said, M Yes — no— rather— 
yes." 



DON JUAN. 



50J 



The family physician had g rat skill, 

And being present, now began to express 
His readiness to feel his pulse and tell 
The cause, but Juan said, " He was quite well." 

xxxnr. 
" Quite well ; yes, — no." — These answers were 
mysterious, 
And yet his looks appear'd to sanction both, 
However they might savour of delirious ; 

Something like illness of a sudden growth 

Weigh'd on his spirit, though by no means 

serious : 

But for the rest, as he himself seem'd loth 

To state the case, it might be ta'en for granted, 

It was not the physician that he wanted. 

XXXIV. 

Lord Henry, who hail now discuss'd his cho- 
colate, 
Also the muffin whereof he complain'd, 
Said, Juan had not got his usual look elate, 
At which he marveii'd, since it had not 
rain'd ; 
Then ask'd her Grace what news were of the 
duke of late ? [pain'd 

Her Grace replied, his Grace was rather 
With some slight, light, hereditary twinges 
Of gout, which rusts aristocratic hinges. 

XXXV. 

Then Henry turn'd to Juan, and address'd 
A few words of condolence on his state : 

" You look, ' quoth he, " as if you had had 
your rest 
Broke in upon by the Black Friar of late." 

" What friar ?" said Juan ; and he did his best 
To put the question with an air sedate, 

Or careless ; but the effort was not valid 

To hinder him from growing still more pallid. 

XXXVI. 

M Oh; have vou never heard of the Black 
Friar ?H3 

The spiritof these walls?" — "In truth not I." 
" Why Fame — but Fame yon know 's some- 
times a liar — 

Tells an odd story, of whiol) by and by : 
Whether with time the spectre has grown shyer, 

Or that our sires had a more gifted eye 
For such sights, though the tale is half believed, 
The friar of 'ate has not been oft perceived. 

XXXVII. 

* The last time was " — " I pray," said 

Adeline — 
(Who watch'd the changes of Don Juan's 
brow, 
And from its con;ext thought she could divine 
Connections stronger than he ch^se to avow 



With this same legend) — " if you hut design 
To jest, you'll choose some other theme ju» 
now, 
Because the present tale has oft been toid. 
And is not much improved by growing old." 

XXXVIII. 

"Je?t!" quoth Milor; "why, Adeline, you 

know [moon—* 

That we ourselves — 'twas in the honey 

Saw " — " Well, no matter, 't was so long 

ago; 
But, come, I "11 set your story to a tune." 
Graceful as Dian, when she draws her bow, 
She seized her harp, whose strings wero 
kindled soon 
As touch'd, and plaintively began to play 
The air of " 'T was a Friar of Orders Gray." 

XXXIX. 

" But add Jw words," cried Henry, " which 
you made ; 

For Adeline is half a poetess," 
Turning round to the rest, he smiling said. 

Of course the others could not but express 
In courtesy their wish to see display 'd 

By one three talents, for there were no less — . 
The voice, the words, the harper's skill, at once 
Could hardly be united by a dunce. 

XL. 

After some fascinating hesitation. — 

The chaiming of these charmers, who seem 
bound, 
I can't tell why, to this dissimulation, — 

Fair Adeline, with eyes fix'd on the ground 
At first, then kindling into animation, 

Added her sweet voice to the lyric sound. 
And sang with much simplicity, — a merit 
Not the less precious, that we seldom hetr it 

1. 
Beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

Who sitteth by Norman stone, 
For he mutters his prayer in the midnight air 

And his mass of the days that are gone. 
When the Lord of the Hill, Amundeville. 

Made Norman Church his prey, 
And expell'd the friars, one friar still 

Would not be driven away. 

% 

Though he cam.- ifc his might, wJlh King 
Henry's ri^M, 

To ♦urn churcn iand& to T ay, 
With s-^ord in nand, and torch to hghi 

Their vails, if they said nay ; 



502 



DON JUAN. 



A monk remain'd, unchased, unchain'd, 
And he did not seem form'd of clay, 

For he's seen in the porch, and he 's seen in 
the church. 
Though he is not seen by day. 



And whether for good, or whether for ill, 

It is not mine to say ; 
But still with the house of Amundeville 

He abideth night and day. 
By the marriage-bed of their lords, 'tis said, 

He flits on the bridal eve; 
And 'tis held as faith, to their bed of death 

He comes— but not to grieve. 



When an heir is born, he's heard to mourn, 

And when aught is to befall 
That ancient line, in the pale moonshine 

He walks from hall to hall. 
His form you may trace, but not his face, 

'Tis shadow'd by his cowl: [tween, 

But his eyes may be seen from the folds be- 

And they seem of a parted soul. 



But beware ! beware ! of the Black Friar, 

He still retains his sway, 
For he is yet the church 's heir 

Whoever may be the lay. 
Amundeville is lord by day, 

But the monk is lord by night ; 
Nor wine nor wassail could raise a vassal, 

To question that friar's right. 



Say nought to him as he walks the hall, 

And he '11 say nought to you ; 
He sweeps along in his dusky pall, 

As o'er the grass the dew. 
Then grammercy! for the Black Friar; 

Heaven sain him! fair or foul, 
And whatsoe'er may be his prayer, 

Let ours be for his souL 



The lady's voice ceased, and the thrilling wires 
. Died from the touch that kindled them to 
sound ; [pires 

And the pause follow'd, which when song ex- 
Pervades a moment those who listen round ; 
And then of course the circle much admires, 
Nor less applauds, as in politeness bound, 
The tone, the feelings, and the execution, 
To the performer's diffident confusion. 



Fair Adeline, though in a careless way, 
As if she rated such accomplishment 

As the mere pastime of an idle day, 

Pursued an instant for her own content, 

Would now and then as 'twere without display 
Yet with display in fact, at times relent 

To such performances with haughty smile, 

To show she could, if it were worth her while. 

XUII. 

Now this (but we will whisper it aside) 
Was — pardon the pedantic illustration — 

Trampling on Plato's pride with greater pride 
As did the Cynic on some like occasion ; 

Deeming the sage would be much mortifiea, 
Or thrown into a philosophic passion, 

For a spoilt carpet — but the " Attic Bee " 

Was much consoled by his own repartee. 

XLIV. 

Thus Adeline would throw into the shade 
(By doing easily, whene'er she chose, 

What dilettanti do with vast parade) 

Their sort of half profession ; for it grows 

To something like this when too oft display 'd. 
And that it is so every body knows, 

Who have heard Miss That or This, or Lady 
T'other, 

Show off — to please their company or mother. 

XLV. 

Oh! the long evenings of duets and trios! 

The admirations and the speculations ; 
The " Mamma Mia's!" and the "Amor Mio's!" 

The " Tanti palpiti's" on such occasions : 
The " Lasciami's," and quavering "Addio's !" 

Amongst our own most musical of nations. 
With " Tu mi chamas's" from Portingale, 
To soothe our ears, lest Italy should fail. 

xtri. 

In Babylon's bravuras — as the home 

Heart-ballads of Green Erin or Gray High- 
lands, 

That bring Lochaber back to eyes that roam 
O'er far Atlantic continents or islands, 

The calentures of music which o'ercome 
All mountaineers with dreams that they art 
nigh lands, 

No more to be beheld but in such visions — 

Was Adeline well versed, as compositions. 

XLVII. 

She also had a twilight tinge of " Blue," 
Could write rhymes, and compose more than 
she wrote, 

Made epigrams occasionally too 

Upon her friends, as every body ought. 



DON JUAN. 



503 



But still from that sublimer azure hue, 

So much the present dye, she was remote : 
Was weak enough to deem Pope a great poet, 
And what was worse, was not ashamed to 
show it. 

XLVIII. 

Aurora — since we are touching upon taste, 
Which now-a-days is the thermometer 

By whose degrees all characters are class'd— 
Was more Shakspearian, if I do not err. 

The worlds beyond this world's perplexing 
waste 
Had more of her existence, for in her 

There was a depth of feeling to embrace 

Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as 
Space. 

XLIX. 

Not so her gracious, graceful, graceless Grace 
The full-grown Hebe of Fitz-Fulke, whose 
mind, 

If she had any, was upon her face, 
And that was of a fascinating kind. 

A little turn for mischief you might trace 
Also thereon, — but that 'snot much; we find 

Few females without some such gentle leaven, 

tor fear we should suppose usquite in heaven. 

L. 

I have not heard she was at all poetic, 

Though once she was seen reading the " Bath 
Guide," [pathetic, 

And " Hayley's Triumphs," which she deem'd 
Because she said lier temper had been tried 

So much, the bard had really been prophetic 
Of what she had gone through with — since 
a bride. 

But of all verse, what most ensured her praise 

Were sonnets to herself, or " bouts rimes." 

LI. 

*T were difficult to say what was the object 

Of Adeline, in bringing this same lay 
To bear on what appear 'd to her the subject 

Of Juan's nervous feelings on that day 
Perhaps she merely had the simple project 

To laugh him out of his supposed dismay ; 
Perhaps she might wish to confirm him in it, 
Though why I cannotsay — atleastthisminute. 

til. 
But so far the immediate effect 

Was to restore him to his self-propriety, 
i thing quite necessary to the elect, 

Who wish to take the tone of their society; 
In which you cannot be too circumspect, 

Whether the mode be persiflage or piety. 
But wear the newest mantle of hypocrisy, 
On pain of much displeasing the gynocracy. 17 * 



And therefore Juan now began to rally 
His spirits, and without more explanation 

To jest upon such themes in many a sally. 
Her Grace too,also seized the same occasion, 

With various similar remarks to tally, 

But wish'd for a still more detail'd narratio 

Of this same mystic friar's curious doings, 

About the present family s deaths and wooingi 

LIV. 

Of these few could say more than has been 

said ; ' [stition 

They pass'd as such things do, for super- 

With some, while others, who had more in 

dread [dition ; 

The theme, half credited the strange tra- 

And much was talk'd on all sides on that head : 

But J uan.when cross-question'd on the vision 

Which some supposed (though he had no* 

avow'd it) 
Had stirr'd him, answer'd in away to cloud it. 

LV. 

And then, the mid-day having worn to one, 
The company prepared to separate ; 

Some to their several pastimes, or to none, 
Some wondering 't was so early, some so late. 

There was a goodly match too, to be run 
Between some greyhounds on my lord's 
estate, 

And a young race-horse of old pedigree, 

Match'd for the spring, whom several went to s»*. 

I.VI. 

There was a picture-dealer who had brought 
A special Titian, warranted original, 

So precious that it was not to be bought, 
Though princes the possessor were besieging 
all. 

The king himself had cheapen'd it, but thought 
The civil list he deigns to accept (obliging all 

His subjects by his gracious acceptation}— 

Too scanty, in these times of low taxation. 

LVII. 

But as Lord Henry was a connoisseur, — 
The friend of artists, if not arts, — the owner, 

With motives the most classical and pure, 
So that he would have been the very donor, 

Rather than seller, had his wants been fewer, 
So much he deem'd his patronage an honour, 

Had brought the capo d' opera 173 , not for sale. 

But for his judgment — never known to fail. 

I.VIII. 

Thene was a modern Goth, I mean a Gothic 
Bricklayer of Babel, call'd an architect, 



504 



DON JUAN. 



Brought to survey these grey walls, which 
though so thick [defect; 

Might hare irom time acquired some slight 
Who alter rummaging the Abbey through thick 
And thin, produced a plan whereby to erect 
New buildings of correctest conformation, 
And throw down old, which he call'd restora- 
tion. 

LIX. 
The cost would be a trifle — an " old song," 

Set to some thousands ft is the usual burden 
Of that same tune,when people hum it long) — 

The price would speedily repay its worth in 
An edifice no less sublime than strong, 

By which Lord Henry's good taste would 
go forth in 
Its glory, through all ages shining sunny, 
For Gothic daring shown in English money. 

LX. 

There were two lawyers busy on a mortgage 
Lord Henry wish'd to raise for a new pur- 
chase ; 
Also a lawsuit upon tenures burgage, 

And one on tithes, which sure are Discord's 

torches, 

Kindling Religion till she throws down for gage, 

" Untying" squires " to fight against the 

churches;" [man, 

There was a prize ox, a prize pig, and plough- 

For Henry was a sort of Sabine showman. 

LXI. 

There were two poachers caught in a steel trap, 
Ready for gaol, their place of convalescence; 

There was a country girl in a close cap 
And scarlet cloak (I hate the sight to see, 
since— 

Since — since — in youth,I had the sad mishap — 
But luckily I have paid few parish fees since) : 

That scarlet cloak, alas ! unclosed with rigour, 

Presents the problem of a double figure. 

Lxn. 

A reel within a bottle is a mystery, 

One can't tell how it e'er got in or out ; 

Therefore the present piece of natural history 
I leave to those who are fond of solving doubt ; 

And merely state, though not for the consistory, 
Lord Henry was a justice, and that Scout 

The constable, beneath a warrant's banner, 

Had bagg'd this poacher upon Nature's manor. 

lxiii. 

Now justices of peace must judge all pieces 
Of mischief of all kinds, and keep the game 

And. morals »f the country from caprices 
Of those who have notalicence for the same; 



And of all things, excepting iuam ami iea» 

Perhaps these are most difficult to tame : 
Preserving partridges and pretty weiwuMP 
Are puzzles to the most precautious beneur* 

LXIV. 

The present culprit was extremely pale, 
Pale as if painted so; her cheek bein# red 

By nature, as in higher dames less hale 
'T is white, at least when they just rise from 
bed. 

Perhaps she was ashamed of seeming fran, 
Poor soul ! for she was country born and 
bred, 

And knew no better in her immorality 

Than to wax white — for blushes are forquality 

LXV. 

Her black, bright, downcast, yet espiegle eye, 
Had gather'd a large tear into its corner. 

Which the poor thing at times essay'd to dry, 
For she was not a sentimental mourner 

Parading all her sensibility, 

Nor insolent enough to scorn the scorner, 

But stood in trembling, patient tribulation, 

To be call'd up for her examination. 

LXVI. 

Of course these groups were scatter'o nere anA 
there, 

Not nigh the gay saloon of ladies gent. 
The lawyers in the study ; and in air 

The prize pig, ploughman, poachers ; the 
men sent 
From town, viz. architect and dealer, were 

Both busy (as a general in his tent 
Writing despatches) in their several stations, 
Exulting in their brilliant lucubrations. 

LXVII. 

But this poor girl was left in the great hall, 
While Scout, the parish guardian of the frail, 

Discuss 71 (he hated beer yclept the " small") 
A mighty mug of moral double ale. 

She waited until Justice could recall 
Its kind attentions to their proper pale, 

To name a thing in nomenclature rather 

Perplexing for most virgins — a child's father. 

LXVIII. 

You see here was enough of occupation 
For the Lord Henry, link'd with dogs and 
horses. 
There was much bustle too, and preparation 
Below stairs on the score of second courses 
Because, as suits their rank and situation. 
Those who in counties have great land 
resources 
Have "publicdays," when all men may carouse 
Thohgh not exactly what 's call'd '• open 
house.* 



DON JUAN. 



505 



LXIX. 

But once a week or fortnight, uninvited, 
(Thus we translate a general invitation) 

All country gentlemen, esquired or knighted, 
May drop in without cards, and take their 
station 

At the full hoard, and sit alike delighted 
With fashionable wines and conversation; 

And, as the isthmus of the grand connection, 

Talk o'er themselves the past and next elec- 
tion. 



Lord Henry was a gioat electioneerer, 

Burrowing for boroughs like a rat or rabbit. 

But county contests cost him rather dearer, 
Because the neighbouring Scotch Earl of 
Giftgabbit [here; 

Had English influence, in the self-same sphere 
His son, the Honourable Dick Dicedrabbit, 

Was member for the "other interest" (meaning 

The same self-interest, with a different leaning). 



Courteous and cautious therefore in his county, 
He was all things to all men, and dispensed 
To some civility, to others bounty, [menced 
And promises to all — which last corn- 
To gather to a somewhat large amount, he 

Not calculating how much they condensed; 
But what with keeping some, and breaking 

others, 
His word had the same value as another's. 



A friend to freedom and freeholders — yet 
No less a friend to government — he held, 

That he exactly the just medium hit [pell'd, 
'Twixt place and patriotism — albeit com- 

Such was his sovereign's pleasure, (though 
unfit, 
He added modestly, when rebels rail'd,) 

To hold some sinecures he wish'd abolish'd, 

But that with them all law would be demo- 
lish'd. 

LXXIII. 

He was " free to confess" — (whence comes 
this phrase ? 

Is 't English ? No — 't is only parliamentary) 
That innovation's spirit now-a-days [century. 

Had made more progress than for the last 
He would not tread a factious path to praise, 

Though for the public weal disposed to 
venture high ; 
As for his place, he could but say this of it, 
That the fatigue was greater tnan the profit 



Heaven, and bis friends, knew that a private 

life 

Had ever been his sole and whole ambition ; 

But could he quit his king in times of strife. 

Which threaten'd the whole country with 

perdition? [knife 

When demagogues would with a butcher's 

Cut through and tbrov\rt 'oh' damnable 

incision !) [strings 

The Gordian or the Geordi-an knot, whose* 

Have tied together commons, lords, and kings. 

LXXV. 

Sooner " come place into the civil list 

And champion him to the utmost" — he 
would keep it, 

Till duly disappointed or dismiss'd: 
Profit he cared not for, let others reap it ; 

But should the day come when place ceased 

to exist, [weep it: 

The country would have far more cause to 

For how could it go on ? Explain who can'. 

He gloried in the name of Englishman. 

LXXVI. 

He was as independent — ay, much more — 
Than those who were not paid for inde 
pendence, 

As common soldiers, or a common shore, 

Have in their several arts or parts ascend- 
ance 

O'er the irregulars in lust or gore, 

Who do not give professional attendance. 

Thus on the mob all statesmen are as eager 

To prove their pride, as footmen to a beggar. 

LXXVII. 

All this (save the last stanza) Henry said, 
And thought. I say no more — I've said 
too much ; 
For all of us have either heard or read — 

Off — or upon the hustings — some slight such 
Hints from the independent heart or head 

Of the official candidate. I '11 touch 
No more on this — the dinner-bell hath rung, 
And grace is said ; the grace I shssiZd have 
sieng — 

lxxviii. 
But I 'm too late, and therefore must make 
play. 
'Twas a great banquet, such as Albion old 
Was wont to boast — as if a glutton's tray 

Were something very glorious to behold. 
But 'twas a public feast und public day, — 
Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes 
cold, 
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer, 
And every body out of their own sphere. 



506 



DON JUAN. 



LXX1X. 

The sqaires familiarly formal, and 

My lords and ladies proudly condescending ; 

The very servants puzzling how to hand 
Their plates — without it might be too much 
bending [stand — 

From their high places by the sideboard's 
Yet, like their masters, fearful of offending. 

For any deviation from the graces 

Might cost both man and master too — their 
places. 

LXXX. 

There were some hunters bold, and coursers 
keen, [deign'd to lurch ; 

Whose hounds ne'er err'd, nor greyhouuds 
Some deadly shots too, Septembrizers, seen 

Earliest to rise, and last to quit the search 

Of the poor partridge through his stubble 

screen. [church 

There were some massy members of the, 

Takers of tithes, and makers of good matches' 

And several who sung fewer psalms than 

catches. 

lxxxi. 
There were some country wags too — and, alas 
Some exiles from the town, who had been 
driven 
To gaze, instead of pavement, upon grass, 
And rise at nine in lieu of long eleven. 
Andlo! upon that day it came to pass, 

I sate next that o'erwhelming son of heaven, 
The very powerful parson, Peter Pith, 
The loudest wit I e'er was deafen'd with. 

LXXXII. 

I knew him in his livelier London days, 

A brilliant diner out, though but a curate ; 

And not a joke he cut but earn'd its praise, 
Until preferment, coming at a sure rate, 

(0 Providence ! how wondrous are thy ways ! 

Who would suppose thy gifts sometimes 

obdurate ?) [Lincoln 

Gave him, to lay the devil who looks o'er 

A fat fen vicarage, and nought to think on. 

LXXXIII. 

His jokes were sermons, and his sermons jokes ; 
But both were thrown away amongst the 
fens; 
For wk hath no great friend in aguish folks. 
No longer ready ears and short-hand pens 
Imbibed the gay bon-mot, or happy hoax. 
The poor priest was reduced to common 
sense, 
Or to coarse efforts very loud and long, 
To hammer a hoarse laugh from the thick 
throng 



LXXXIV. 

There is a difference, says the song " between 
A beggar and a queen," or was (of late 

The latter worse used of the two we *ve seen — ■ 
But we'll say nothing of affairs of state) 

A difference " 'twixt a bishop and a dean," 
A difference between crockery ware and plate, 

As between English beef and Spartan broth— 

And yet great heroes have been bred by both. 

LXXXV. 

But of all nature's discrepancies, none 

Upon the whole is greater than the difference 

Beheld between the country and the town, 
Of which the latter merits every preference 

From those who have few resources of their own 
And only think, or act, or feel, with reference 

To some small plan of interest or ambition — 

Both which are limited to no condition. 

LXXXVI. 

But " en avant!" The light loves languish o'er 
Long banquets and too many guests, although 

A slight repast makes people love much more, 
Bacchus and Ceres being, as we know, 

Even from our grammar upwards, friends of 
yore 
With vivifying Venus, who doth owe 

To these the invention of champagne and 
truffles: [ruffles. 

Temperance delights her, but long fasting 

LXXXVII. 

Dully past o'er the dinner of the day; 

And Juan took his place, he knew not where. 
Confused, in the confusion, and distrait, 

And sitting as if nail'd upon his chair 
Though knives and forks clank'd round as in 
a fray, 

He seem'd unconscious of all passing there, 
Till some one, with a groan, exprest a wish 
(Unheeded twice) to have a fin of fish. 

LXXXVIII. 

On which, at the third asking of the bans, 
He started; and perceiving smiles around 

Broadening to grins, he colour'd more than 
once, 
And hastily — as nothing can confound 

A wise man more than laughter from a dunce- 
Inflicted on the dish a deadly wound, 

And with such hurry, that ere he could curb it, 

He had paid his neighbour's prayer with half 
a turbot. 

LXXXIX. 

This was no bad mistake, as it occurr'd. 

The supplicator being an amateur ; 
But others, who were left with scarce a third, 

Were angry — as they well might, to be sere. 



DON JUAN. 



507 



rhey wonder' d how a young man so absurd 

Lord Henry at his table should endure ■ 
And this, and his not knowing how much oats 
Had fallen last market, cost his host three votes. 



I*hey little knew, or might have sympathised, 

That he the night before had seen a ghost, 
A prologue which but slightly harmonised 

With the substantial company engross'd 
By matter, and so much materialised, 

That one scarce knew at what to marvel most 
Of two things — how (the question rather odd is) 
Such bodies could have souls, or souls such 
bodies. 

xci. 
But what confused him more than smile or stare, 

From all the 'squires and squiresses around, 
Who wonder'd at the abstraction of his air, 

Especially as he had been renown'd 
For some vivacity among the fair, 

Even in the country circle's narrow bound — 
;For little things upon my lord's estate 
Were good small talk for others still less 
great)— 

xcn. 
Was, that he caught Aurora's eye on his, 

And something like a smile upou her cheek. 
Now this he really rather took amiss: 

In those who rarely smile, their smile be- 
speaks 
A strong external motive; and in this 

Smile of Aurora's there was nought to pique 
Or hope, or love, with any of the wile*. 
Which some pretend to trace in ladies' smiles. 

XCIII. 

'Twas a mere quiet smile of contemplation, 

Indicative of some surprise and pity; 
And Juan grew carnation with vexation, 

Which was not very wise, and still less witty, 
Since he had gain'd at least her observation, 

A most important outwork of the city — 
As Juan should have known, had not his senses 
By last night's ghost been driven from their 
defences. 

xciv. 
But what was bad, she did not blush in turn, 

Nor seem embarrass'd — quite the contrary; 
Her aspect was as usual, still — not stern — 

And*she withdrew, but cast not down, her eye, 
Yet grew a little pale — with what? concern ? 

I know not ; but her colour ne'er was high — 
Though sometimes faintly llush'd — and always 

clear, 
As deep seas in a sunny atmosphere. 



But Adeline was occupied by fame 

This day ; and watching, witching, ottt- 
descending 

To the consumers of fish, fowl, and game, 
And dignity with courtesy so blending, 

As all must blend whose part it is to aim 
(Especially as the sixth year is ending) 

At their lord's, son's, or similar connection's. 

Safe conduct through the rocks of re-elections. 



Though this was most expedient on the whole, 
And usual — Juan, when he cast a glance 

Jn Adeline while playing her grand role, 
Which she went through as though it were 
a dance, 

Betraying only now and then her soul 
By a look scarce preeeptibly askance 

(Of weariness or scorn, began to feel 

Some doubt how much of Adeline was real; 



So well she acted all and every part 

By turns — with that vivacious versatility, 

Which many people take lor want of heart. 
They err — 'tis merely what iscall'dmobility, 

A thing of tei.nperament and not of art, 

Though seeming so, from its supposed facility; 

And false — though true ; for surely they 're 
sincerest, 

Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest. 

XCVXIL 
This makes your actors, artists, and romancers. 

Heroes sometimes, though seldom — sages 
never: 
But speakers, bards, diplomatists, and dancers, 

Little that's great, but much of what is clever; 
Most orators, but very few financiers, 

Though all E xchequer chancel lors endeavour, 
Of late years, to dispense with Cocker's rigours, 
And grow quite figurative with their figures. 



The poets of arithmetic are they 

Who, though they prove not two and two 
to be 
Five, as they might do in a modest way, 

Have plainly made it out that fourare three. 
Judging by what they take, and what they 
pay. 

The Sinking Fund's unfathomable sea, 
That most unliquidating liquid, leaves 
The debt unsunk, yet sinks all it receives. 



508 



DON JUAN, 



c. 

While Adeline dispensed her airs and graces, 
The lair Fitz-Fulke seem'd very much at 
ease ; 

Though too well bred to quiz men to ;heir faces, 
Her laughing blue eyes with a glance could 
seize 

The ridicules of people in all places — 
That honey of your fashionable bees — 

Ami store it up for mischievous enjoyment; 

A ml this at present was her kind employment. 



However, the day closed, as days must close ; 

The evening also waned — and coffee came, 
Each carnage was announced, and ladies 
rose, 

And curtsying off, as curtsies country dame, 
Retired: with most unfashionable bows 

Their docile esquires also did the same, 
Delighted with their dinner and their host, 
But with the Lady Adeline the most. 



Some praised her beauty: others her great grace, 
The warmth of her politeness, whose sincerity 

Was obvious in each feature of her lace, 
Whose traits were radiant with the rays of 
verity, 

Yes ; she was truly worthy her high place ! 
No one could envy her deserved prosperity. 

And then her dress — what beautiful simplicity 

Draperied her form with curious felicity ! 

cm. 

Meanwhile sweetAdeline deserved their praises, 

By an impartial indemnification 
For all her past exertion and soft phrases, 

In a most edifying conversation, 
Which turn'd upon their late guests' miens and 
faces, 

And families, even to the last relation ; 
Their hideous wives, their horrid selves and 

dresses, 
And truculent distortion of their tresses. 



True, she said little — 't was the rest that broke 

Forth into universal epigram; 
But then 'twas to the purpose what she spoke : 

Like Addison's " faint praise," so wont to 
damn, 
Her own but served to set off every joke, 

As music chimes in with a melodrame. 
How sweet the task to shield an abser t friend ! 
I ask but this of mine, to not defend. 



There were but two exceptions to this keen 
Skirmish of wits o'er the departed ; one 

Aurora, with her pure and placid mien ; 
And Juan, too, in general behind none 

In gay remark on what he had heard or seei 
Sate silent now, his usual spirits gone: 

In vain he heard the others rail or rally, 

He would not join them in a single sally. 



T is true he saw Aurora look as though 

Sheapprovedhissilence;sheperhapsmistook 

Its motive for that charity we owe 

But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 

Farther ; it might or it might not be so. 
But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 

Observing little in his reverie, 

Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see 



Theghostatleasthaddone him this much good, 
In making him as silent as a ghost, 

If in the circumstances which ensued 

He gain'd esteem where it was worth the most. 

And certainly Aurora had renew'd 

In him some feelings he had lately lost, 

Or harden'd ; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 

Are so divine, that I must deem them real: — 

cvni. 

The love of higher things and better days; 

The unbounded hope.and heavenly ignorance 
Of what is call'd the world, and the world's 
ways ; 

The moments when we gather from a glance 
More joy than from all future pride or praise. 

Which kindle manhood, but can ne er en 
trance 
The heart in an existence of its own, 
Of which another's bosom is the zone. 



Who would not sigh Auti ret* Kvfoftm* 
That hath a memory, or that had a heart ? 

Alas ! her star must fade like that of Dian ■ 
Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart 

Anacreon only had the soul to tie an 

Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted clan 

Of Eros : but though thou hast play'd us manj 
tricks, 

Still we respect thee, "Alma Venus Genem*!" 



And full of sentiments, sublime as Dimms 
Heaving between this world and worlds be. 
vond. 



DON JUAN. 



509 



Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
Arrived, retired to his; but to despond 

Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
Waved oer his couch; he meditated, fond 

Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish 
sleep, [weep. 

And make the worldling sneer, the youngling 

CXI. 

The night was as before : he was undrest, 
Saving his night-gown, which is an undress ; 

Completely " sans culotte," and without vest ; 
In short, he hardly could be clothed with less : 

But apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
He sate with feelings awkward to express 

(By those who have not had such visitations), 

Expectant of the ghost's fresh operations. 

cxn. 
And not in vain he listen'd; — Hush! what 'a 
that? 

I see — 1 see — Ah, no ! — 't is not — yet 't is — 
Ye powers! it is the — the — the — Pooh', 'hecat! 

The devil may take that stealthy pace of his ! 
So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 

Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

CXIIl. 

Again — what is't? The wind? No. no — this 
time 
Tt is the sable friar as before. 
With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, 

Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much 
more. 
Again through shadows of the night sublime 
When deep sleep fell on men, and the world 
wore 
The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
Spangled with gems — the monk made hisblood 
curdle. - 

CXIV. 

.* noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass,176 

Which sets the teeth on edge ; and a slight 

clatter, [pass. 

Like showers which on the midnight gusts will 
Sounding like very supernatural water, 

Came over Juan's ear, which throbb'd, alas ! 
For immaterialism 's a serious matter; 

So that even those whose faith is the most great 

In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 



Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 

Tremendous to a mortal tympanum ; 
His eyes were open, and (as was before 
Stated] his mouth. What open'd next?^-tht 
door 

CXVI 

It open'd with a most infernal creak, 

Like that of hell. "Lasciate ogni speranza 

Voi che entrate ! " The hinge seemed to speak. 
Dreadful as Dante's rhima, or this stanza ; 

Or — but all words upon such themes aw 
weak : 
A single shade 's sufficient to entrance a 

Hero — for what is substance to a spirit? 

Or how is 't matter trembles to come near if 

cxvu. 
The door flew wide, not swiftly, — but, as fly 
The sea-gulls, with a steady, sober flight — 
And then swung back ; nor close — but stood 
awry, 
Half letting in long shadows on the light, 
Which still in Juan's candlesticks burn'd 
high, 
For he had two, both tolerably bright, 
And in the door-way, darkening darkness, 

stood 
The sable friar in his solemn hood. 



Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken 
The night before ; but being sick of shaking, 
He first inclined to think he had been mis- 
taken ; 
And then to be ashamed of such mistaking; 
His own internal ghost began to awaken 
Within him, and to quell his corporal qua 
king- 
Hinting that soul and body on the whole 
Were odds against a disembodied soul. 



Were his eyes open ? — Yes ! and his mouth too. 

Surprise has this effect — to make one dumb, 
Yetleave the gate which eloquence slips through 

As wide as if a long speech were to come 



And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath 
fierce, 
And he arose,advanced — theshade retreated; 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce. 

Follow'd,his veins no longer cold,but heated . 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and 
tierce, 
At whatsoever risk of being defeated ; 
The ghost stopp'd, menaced, then retired, 

until 
He reach'd the ancient wall, thtn stood stone 
still. 



510 



DON JUAN. 



Juan put forth one arm — Eternal powers ! 
It tuich'd no soul, no body, but the wall, 

Onwhich the moonbeams fell in silvery showers, 
Chequer'd with all the tracery of the hall ; 

He shucider'd, as no doubt the bravest cowers 
When he can't tell what 't is that doth appal. 

How odd, a single hobgoblin s non-entity 

Should cause more fear than a whole host's 
identity. 



And Juan, puzzled, but still curious, thru** 
His other arm forth — Wonder upon w ondr.r*. 

It press'd upon a hard but glowing bust, 
Which beat as if there was a warm heart 
under. 

He found, as people on most trials must, 
That he had made at first a silly blunder, 

And that in his confusion he had caught 

Only the wall, instead of what he sought. 



But still the shade remain'd : the blue eyes 
glared, 

And rather variably for stony death ; 
Vet one thing rather good the grave had spaied, 

The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath : 
A straggling curl show'd he had been fair-hair'd; 

A red ilp. with two rows of pearls beneath, 
Gleam'd forth, as through the casement's ivy 

shroud 
1T» moon peep'd, jiut escaped from a grey 



exxrji. 

The ghost, if ghost it were, seem'd a sweel 
soul 
As ever lurk'd beneath a holy hood ; 
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory, stole 

Forth into something much like flesh and 
blood ; 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl, 
And they reveal' d — alas ! that e'er they 
should ! 
In full, voluptuous, but not oVrgrown bulk, 
The phantom of her frolic Grace— Fitz-Fulke 



NOTES. 



"Notts to W&z CBrtaour. 



Notb 1, p. 1. — The material upon which 
the tale of the Giaour is founded, is more 
or less attributable to the adventure of Lord 
Byron's own servant; an adventure which 
indirectly implicated the noble author him- 
self. 

Note 2, p. 1. — A tomb, alleged to be the 
restiug-place of the great Themistocles. It is 
situated above the rocks on the promontory. 

Note 3, p. 1. — The Persians have a cur 
rent and popular notion, that the nightingale 
has a peculiar partiality for the rose. 

Note 4, p. 1. — Amongst the Greek sailors, 
the song and dance by night, accompanied 
by the tinkle of the guitar, form a favourite 
pastime. 

Note 5, p. 2. — There is infinite beauty 
und effect, though of a painful and almost 
oppressive character, in this extraordinary 
passage ; in which the author has illustrated 
the beautiful, but still and melancholy aspert 
of the once busy and glorious shores of 
Greece, by an image more true, more mourn- 
ful, and more exquisitely finished, than any 
that we can recollect in the whole compass of 
poetry. — Jeffrey. 

Note 6, p. 2. — At the period when this 
poem was written, Athens was in the hands 
of Kislar Aga, the eunuch-superintendent of the 
seraglio. 

Note 7, p. 3. — The reciter of the tale Is 
a Turkish fisherman, who has been employed 
during the day in the gulf of iEgina, and in 
the evening, apprehensive of the Mainote 
pirates who infest the coast of Attica, lands 
with his boat in the harbour of Port Leone, 
the ancient Piraeus. He becomes the eye- 
witness of nearly all the incidents in the 
story, and in one of them is a principal agent. 
It is to his feelings, and particularly to his 
religious prejudices, that we are indebted 



for some of the most forcible and splendid 
parts of the poem. — Gbcskse Ellis 

Note 8, p. 3. — The word Giaour, (or in 
fidel), is thus spelt by the Italians and hy 
the Christians of the Levant. The English 
pronunciation is hardly so soft, and were 
better rendered by Djour. 

Note 9, p. 3. — A musket. The discharge 
of fire-arms is the signal which summons the 
faithful Mussulman to his duties. 

Note 10, p. 3. — A species of javelin with a 
blunted point, which is hurled with unerring 
aim, from on horseback. 

Note 11. p. 3. — Every gesture of the im 
petuous horseman is full of anxiety and pas 
sion. In the midst of his career, whilst in 
full view of the astonished spectator, he sud 
denly checks his steed, and rising on his 
stirrup, surveys, with a look of agonising im 
patience, the distant city illuminated for the 
feast of Bairam ; then pale with anger, raisea 
his arm, as if in menace of an invisible 
enemy; but awakened from his trance oi 
passion by the neighing of his charger, again 
hurries forward, and disappears. — Georgk 
Ellis. 

Note 12, p. 4. — The wind peculiar to the 
deserts in tropical climates, and in the east 
which is known to blight animals as well as 
vegetable productions. 

Notu 13, p. 4. — The fact of having eaten 
at a Mohammedan's table, especially the ust 
of salt. 

Note 14, p. 4. — The Mohammedans are 
proverbial for the exercise of charity and 
hospitality, which constitute two cardinal 
virtues in their creed. Their proudest boast 
is to be distinguished for munificence ; and 
second to that, they pride themselves on 
their bravery and skill in the field. 

Note 15, p. 4. — This is a dagger of more 



512 



NOTES. 



than usual length, which is carried with the 
pistols in the metal belt peculiar to the cos- 
tume of the Turks. The material of the 
belt distinguishes the rank of the wearer 

Note 16, p. 4. — All those who wear green 
in their costume, particularly in the cap or 
wrban, are claimants to the honour of being 
descended from Manomet himoeli. 

Note 17, p. 4. — This is a courteous ad- 
dress offered to disciples of Mahomet alone. 

Note 18, p. 5. — A butterfly with blue wings 
indigenous to Cashmere, and especially re- 
markable for its beauty, and the brilliancy 
of its hues. 

Note 19, p. 5. — An allusion to the hypo- 
thesis that the scorpion destroys itself when 
it turns its sting towards its head. 

Note 20, p. 5.— The salute at dusk closes 
the Rhamazan. 

Note 21, p. 5. — The moon. 

Note 22, p. 6. — The ruby of the Sultan 
Giamschid, of fabulous celebrity. 

Note 23, p. 6.— Al-Sirat. This is the 
bridge over which the disciples of Mahomet 
are taught to believe that they must pass to 
secure access to beatitude. According to their 
creed, this bridge passes over the abyss of eternal 
darkness, and the passage is rendered doubly 
hazardous by its inconceivable narrowness. 
The most attenuated thread of the silkworm 
is not so fine, and the keenest edge of a 
Damascus blade offers a fairer footing. 

Note 24, p. 6.— The houris, it is known, 
are the damsels whose charms are to illustrate 
the eternal happiness of the' faithful. The 
fable is in every way consistent with the 
tastes, inclinations, and prepossessions of 
Oriental climates and customs. The houris, 
whose large, dark, and glowing eyes have 
obtained for them this distinctive "name, are 
supposed to last for ever in the freshness and 
beauty of youth. 

Note 25, p. 6.— This is a mistake which 
has been commonly adopted by the Christians 
from want of a clear knowledge of the insti- 
tutions, or the creed expounded in the Koran. 
A fair portion of eternal bliss is assigned U 
the gentler sex. 

Note 26, p. 6.— This is a metaphor pecu 
liar to the east. 

Note 27, p. 6.— The Oriental bards are 
not singular in this idea ; it is constantly 
met with in the more ancient lore of Greece. 

Note 28, p. 6.— Circassia. 

Note 29. p. 6. — This word is to be con 
etrued " In the name of God." The expres- 



sion is of almost constant recurrence in th» 
Koran, and is ever repeated in all devo 
tional passages. 

Note 30, p. 7.— This is said to be more 
common with the Moslems in their wrath, 
than it would be believed to be in more sobe/ 
Europe. 

_ Note 31, p. 7.— The word signifies for- 
giveness, or mercy. 

Note 32, p. 7. — This notion is prevalent 
wherever Islamism predominates. 

Note 33, p. 7.— The Shawls or Wrappers 
embroidered with flowers, and distinctively 
worn by those who are of high rank. 

Note 34, p 8. — An allusion to the passage 
in Holy Writ, referring to the mother of 
Sisera. 

Note 35, p. 8. — This is the skull-cap which 
forms the centre of the turban, and which 
protrudes above the wrapping. 

Note 36, p. 8.— The sepulchre of the Os- 
manlies is invariably adorned with the special 
insignia of their calling, order, and creed. 

Note 37, p. 8. — This is the summons 
uttered by the Muezzin to congregate the 
faithful at the hour of devotion. The Muezzin 
or Officer, upon whom this duty devolves, 
stations himself for this purpose upon the 
upper balcony surrounding the Minaret of the 
Mosque in which he officiates. 

Note 38, p. 8. — The passage has a paral 
lei in one of the Turkish war songs. 

Note 39, p. 8. — To elucidate the allusion 
in this passage, it were as well to refer the 
reader to Sale's Koran. The supposititious 
duties of the officers of Eternal Justice 
according to the Moslem notions cannot be 
well understood, without some insight into 
the peculiar tenor of their Religious Cere- 
monial, and into the eccentricities of their 
Creed. 

Note 40, p. 8. — The Satan of the Mo- 
hammedans. 

Note 41, p. 8.— Tournefort D'Herbelot, 
and others, should be consulted on the sub- 
ject of many of the Oriental superstitions and 
prejudices. There are many anecdotes which 
will be found illustrative of this passage. In 
fact it is not so clear but that Lord Byron 
borrowed this suggestion from Tournefort, 
whom he has somewhere quoted as his au- 
thority. We have not been able to find any 
explanation of his own, however. 

Note 42, p. 8. — An allusion to the re- 
ceived notion in the South-east of Europe, 
respecting the symptoms exhibited by thos« 



NOTES. 



513 



who have been attacked by the Vampire, 
anm/igst the peasantry of those regions, the 
belief in the habits of that indescribable ani- 
mal, and in the effects of its strange nurture. 

Note 43, p. 10. — An allusion to the cur- 
rent fable concerning the Pelican. 

Note 44. p. 11. — Lord Byron has afforded 
an interesting anecdote explanatory of the 
Oriental superstition of prophetic or second 
hearing. This tale is the more remarkable, 
that he was notoriously sceptical on these 
subjects. He relates an incident which oc- 
curred to him in the Morea, in 1811, and in 
which the prescient alarm of an Albanian who 
accompanied him, is strongly illustrated. 

Note 45, p. 13. — The Romaic word sig- 
nifying " a Shroud " or " a Winding Sheet" 

Note 46, p. 14. — The story of the Giaour 
is not, as we have already explained in the 
advertisement, without foundation in fact; 
for Lord Byron had founded the incidents 
of his poem upon a local tale, which was cur- 



rent in Turkey, and the substance of which 
was thoroughly within tbe recollection of 
many living persons. He was moreover 
assisted by the matter furnished in the songs 
or laments to which it had given birth. Tims 
far the history and fate of the heroine had 
been furnished, and those of the hero were 
gathered from the ad% r entures of a Venetian 
currently and traditionally known and be- 
lieved. Nor can it be doubted but that the 
substance was in all important points true, 
even had a few of the details been embellished 
before they were handled by the poet. It 
can also be added in favour of the Giaour as 
a poem and a story, that its greatest charm 
consists in the reality and life-like accuracy 
of its incidents and descriptions. Lord 
Byron was always remarkably happy in 
adapting the salient points of a story, and 
equally so in the vividness, truth, aptitude, 
and colour, if it may be so called, of his 
descriptions. 



Jiotts to ®Je 23rirje of ^bgrjfos. 



Note 1, p. 15. — This poem was first pub- 
lished at the close of the year 1813, aftor 
but a very short 'apse of time employed in 
its composition. Lord Byron was proverbially 
rapid in his writing, and this remark is es- 
pecially applicable to the pieces he -wrote 
about this period. There appears to have 
been a dreary sense of a want of something 
to busy him, and prevent his mind from 
brooding over its sorrows, which gave birth 
to some of his most brilliant poems. On the 
other hand, it was in writing these works 
from time to time that he filled the void 
which seemed to hang about him. They 
were thus the effect and the solace of his 
desolate satiety. Once in the vein for 
writing, he appears to have rattled on, and 
completed whatever work or portion he had 
undertaken, whilst the humour lasted. 

Note 2, p. 15. — The title of this poem 
appeals to have afforded some material for 
cavil. The "Bride " is, in fact, a somewhat 
questionable denomination for the heroine. 
But the criticism is, nevertheless, aa unjust as 
the quibble is paitry ; for, after all, the ques- 
tios. ie*ot*ea itself merely into one of words 

34 



or interpretations. The meaning remains 
the same. 

Note 3, p. 15. — Tb~ Romaic word signi- 
fying Rose, is " Gul." 

Note 4, p. 16.— The Romeos and Juliets 
of romance are no such uncommon per- 
sonages — Mejnoun and Leila, we are told, 
are those who represent Shakespere's hero 
and heroine, in the Levant. Sadi is the bard 
and sage, or moralist, of Persia. 

Note 5, p. 16 — In Turkey, the three pe- 
riods of the day, the rising, zenith, and the 
setting of the sun, are announced by the roll- 
ing of a drum bearing that designation. 

Note 6, p. 16. — There is no love lost be- 
tween the schismatical tribes of Arabia and 
the Mussulmans of Turkey. The enmitv 
which exists between these branches of the 
followers of Mahomet is, in fact, more bit r .er 
than that which severs the Moslems from anv 
other religious sect. 

Note 7, p 17. — An allusion to one of the 
principal feudal vassals of Turkey. 

Note 8, p. 17.— The fatal "warrant by 
which a subject of tbe Porte is condemned 
to death, by the prevailing instrument o/ 
9 



514 



NOTES. 



•translation, is not always obeyed without 
resistance ; instances are not wanting in 
which the messenger who conveyed the order, 
or notice of condemnation, has been sub- 
mitted to the punishment by the culprit. In 
other cases, however, the mandate is reli- 
giously obeyed. 

Note 9, p. 17. — In Turkey the only me- 
thod of calling attendants, is by clapping the 
hands or stamping with the foot. 

Note 10, p. 17. — The prevalence of smoking 
has almost rendered it unnecessary to translate 
the word " Chibouque." The Turks, Arabs, 
Persians, and the people of the Levant, gene- 
rally adopt this shape of pipe only. It con- 
sists of a small bowl, generally of red clay ; 
but in some cases, of ivory, metal, or other 
material adorned with jewels, and a long 
cherry tube, tipped with a round and atte- 
nuating piece of amber, which forms the 
mouthpiece. There is frequently a ring of 
gold, sometimes set with jewels round the 
joint, between the amber and the stem. 

Note 11, p. 17. — The denomination by 
which the stipendiary troops in the Turkish 
service are distinguished. 

Note 12, p. 17. This term is applied to 
those to whom conduct of dangerous ser- 
vices is entrusted. They are generally en- 
gaged in the first charge, and are almost 
invariably placed at the head of bodies of 
cavalry. 

Note 13, p. 17.— The Turks in sword- 
practice protect themselves with a thick and 
tcugh covering, which is generally proof 
against any single blow. 

Note l4,p 17. — This is an ejaculation which 
is very prevalent amongst the Turks, when 
they are excited either by sport or action. 
At other times their taciturnity is as pro- 
verbial as their indolence, if indeed it be not 
a part of it. 

Note 15, p. 18. — A scent in high favour 
in the Levant, and very generally used m 
Europe. Ottar of roses was, however, far 
more in use formerly than it is now. 

Note 16, p. 18. — The Mohammedans are 
particularly fond of decorating their walls and 
ceilings with dazzling views of Constantinople, 
in which the Chinese taste and judgment of 
art are most apparent. 

Note 17, p. 18. — " Azrael," amongst the 
Mohammedans is an impersonation of death. 
Note 18. p. 18. — An allusion to the tra- 
ditionary antiquities of the Sultans. 

Note" 19, p. 19. — The " musselim ' is an 



officer of the governmeut, whose station it 
second to that of a Pacha. 

Note 20, p. 19.— The Turkish name foi 
Negropont. The inhabitants of this province 
are despised like those of Athens. 

Note 21, p. 19. — " Tchocadar," an usher 
Note 22, p. 20. — An allusion to the well 
known story of antiquity. 

Note 23, p. 20. — Amber, like all resinoui 
substances, may be quickened by friction : it it 
well known to be strongly charged with elec- 
tricity by this operation, and emits a slight 
aroma. When burnt, the scent is very power- 
ful and by no means disagreeable. 

Note 24, p. 20. — Amulets are deeply rt 
vered by the Mohammedans, who have thi 
greatest confidence in their efficacy. It is bj 
no means uncommon to see a small piece of 
some venerated relic worn about the person, 
encased in gold and jewels. Extracts from 
their sacred writ are generally engraved on 
the case The most ignorant peasantry in 
Roman Catholic countries are not now so 
much attached to this venerative prejudice 
as many of the wealthiest and best educated 
Mussulmen. 

Note 25, p. 20 — An appendage which 
may beheld to represent the Rosary of the Ro- 
man Catholics amongst the Mohammedans. 

Note 26, p. 21. — The designation of a 
seaman amongst the Turks; by winch also the 
person so called is distinguished from the 
Greek or other subject in the service. The 
description here given by Lord Byron, is 
accurate enough. There are, however, a few 
little additions which are attributable to the 
particular costume of some individual who 
personally served as the model. 

Note 27, p. 22. — The majority of tbe swords 
or scimitars used by Mohammedans bear some 
verse of the Koran as an inscription. The 
patterns vary considerably, and Lord Byron 
had in his possession more than one specimen 
of this oriental article of manufacture. The 
steel is remarkable for being very highly tern 
pered, and the edge of an oriental weapon is 
always far more keen than that of any in use 
amongst us. 

Note 28, p. 22.— The traditior.s of the Jews 
are far from being unknown amongst the 
Mohammedan?. It is well known that Ma- 
homet himself was careful in impugning the 
revelation of the Hebrew writ; and the same 
traditions therefore appear in Mussulman 
Sacred History as in that of the Jews, with this 
difference only, that they are clothed in othef 



NOTES. 



language, and that the names are adapted to 
their own fancy or version. Zuleika is the 
name attributed to Potiphar'a wife. The same 
incident as that related of her in the Old 
Testament has been reproduced with all the 
lustre of oriental imagery. 

Note 29, p. 22. — An allusion to one of 
th<5 insurgent vassals who defied the utmost 
power of the government. 

Note 30, p. 22. — This is the distinguishing 
pennon of a Pacha, whose rank and command 
are marked by this standard. 

Note 31, p. 22. — An allusion to one of 
those crimes or romantic enterprises so com- 
mon in the East. — The victim in this instance 
was a Pacha of the name of Giaifir, of whom, 
as of the coincidence, Lord Byron has given 
a detailed account. He had occasion, at a later 
period, to know more of the hero and per- 
petrator, who was no less a personage than 
Ali the Pacha of Albania. 

Note 32, p. 23. — When a Turk speaks of 
the Island or the Sea, he must be understood 
to indicate the Archipelago, for beyond that, 
few amongst his nation have any idea of 
insular conformation. 

Note 33, p. 23 — This passage alludes to 
one of the most remarkable leaders of the 
Greek revolts. Lord Byron, from the interest 
he took in the regeneration and independence 
of Greece, and from his active participation 
in the struggle, had become intimately ac- 
quainted with all the details of its history and 
had had occasion to meet with the principal 
personages who figured in the melancholy 
annals of the Morea before the battle of 
Navarino 

Note 34, p. 23. — Amongst the Turks, all 
those who are subject to the capitation tax, 
are distinguished by the denomination of 
" Rayahs." 

Note 35, p. 24. — An allusion to the pecu- 
liar habits and prepossessions of Mohamme- 
dans. 

Note 36, p. 24. — Lord Byron has unneces- 
sarily apologized for the tenor of this passage. 
It is perfectly true, not only of the indigenous 
population or wandering tribes of the East, 
but also of Europeans, who are by accident 
ar design, east into a similar career, that the 



wild and uncontrolled freedom of the broad 
expanse of desert inspires them with a species 
of elevated spirit of independence. There if 
a pleasure in the impressions which crowd 
upon the mind iu such a situation, which 
none can properly understand but those v ho 
have thoroughly entered into this peculiai 
mode ol life. 

Note 37, p. 24 — One of the terms signify- 
ing the place of eternal bliss. 

Note 38, p. 26. — The following passage 
will be the most explanatory ol the allusion and 
we therefore take the liberty to extract it as it 
stands. " While the Salsette lay off the Dar- 
danelles, Lord Byron saw the body of a man 
who had been executed by being cast into the 
sea, floating on the stream to and fro with the 
trembling of the water, which gave to its arms 
the effect of scaring away several sea-iowl 
that were hovering to devour. This incident 
has been strikingly depicted." — Galt 

Note 39. p 26. — The burial-place of Mo- 
hammedan women is left without any distinctive 
mark: that of the men is adorned with a 
sculptured turban above the inscription (if 
there be any) The inscription generally con- 
sists ol some of the most admired verses of 
the Koran. 

Note 40, p. 26 — The funeral chant uttered 
by the women. The term " silent slaves " is 
applied to the male portion of such melancholy 
ceremonies, because it is one of the points of 
delicacy amongst the Mohammedans not to 
betray any emotion before strangers. 

Note 41, p. 26. — This passage will be 
better understood by referring to a note on the 
subject attached to the "Pleasures of Me- 
mory." — It is an adaptation of a passage in 
oriental poetry. 

Note 42, p. 27. — This notion is peculiarly 
prevalent in the East, but it should be added, 
that it is by no means confined to those • re- 
gions. We are notin ourown coun ry without 
many remarkable instances of similar delu- 
sions. There are some anecdotes illustrative 
of this question to be found in the Correa 
pondence of Horace Walpole, whose tasu 
appears to have inclined him to seek od such, 
and similar fantasies. 



516 



NOTES 



Notes to tj)* ©orsafr. 



Note 1. p. 28. — This poem is another ex- 
ample of the facility and fertility of Lord 
Byron's genius. The beauty of his writing 
would almost appear to have been enhanced 
by rapidity ; a phenomenon which is some- 
what explained by the evidence borne by his 
poems themselves, that he wrote from impulse 
and not from reflection. He " wreaked his 
thoughts upon expression," he did not wait 
to chill a thought by studying its diction. 
Hence all the vigour, freshness, energy, power, 
and acrimony of his productions. " The Cor- 
sair " was begun and completed in the course 
of thirteen days, and at a period almost con- 
temporary with the completion of the " Bride 
oi Abydos." 

Note 2, p. 23. — It may not be superfluous 
to remind the reader of " The Corsair," that 
the islands selected as the scene of this little 
drama are all of them but a short distance 
from one another and from the main land. 
There is therefore no inaccuracy or ana- 
chronism in the quick succession of incidents 
as they are related ; — far from it: — to those who 
are well acquainted with the locality arid 
the impetuous temperament of the people, they 
will appear but the more probable and truth- 
ful. 

Notb 3, p. 30. — The author has been at 
some pains to excuse himself from having 
strained the privileges of poetry or fiction in 
drawing the character of Conrad in this poem. 
And there can be no harm in adding the 
citations adduced by him from history in 
support of the portraiture produced by his 
imagination. It would seem from the follow- 
ing quotations, that characters, no less strange 
to the everyday life ideas of a London reader, 
have actually figured in reality. 

" Eccelin prisonmer,"dit E-olandini,"s'en- 
fenioitdans un silence menacant ; il fixoit 
sur la terre son regard feroce, et ne donnoit 
point d'essor a sa profonde indignation. De 
toutes partes cependant les soldats et les 
peuples accouroient ; ils vouloient voir cet 
humme, jadis si puissant, et la joie univer- 
•elle eclatoi't de toutes partes. • • * 
" Ecceiin etoit d'une petite taille : mais tout 
I' aspect de sa personne, tous ses m>>uvemens, 
indiqiii/ient un soldat. Son langage etoit 
amcr, son rieportement superbe — et par son 



seul regard, il faisoit trembler les phuhandi* ' 
— Sismo?idi, tome iii. p. 219. 

Again, " Gisericus statura mediocris, et eqm 
casu claudicans, animo profundus, sermmu 
rarus, luxuriae, contemptor, ira, turbidus, ha- 
bendi cupidus, ad solicitandas gentes provi. 
dentissimus," &c. &c. — Jornandes de Rebut 
Geticis, c. 33. 

Note 4, p. 34. — The phosphoric sparkling 
of the sea about the prow, sides, and wake 
of a boat or vessel, or at each dip of the oar» 
or break of the water, is perhaps far better 
known and more frequently observed in thu 
Mediterranean and in more central latitude* 
than on our own coasts. It is, moreover, fa 
inore intense in brilliancy, owing to the dart 
and profound blue of the sky and water, upo» 
which this flashing breaks like an aurora 
But we have also not unfrequently observe* 
the same sparkling about Portsmouth and 
round the Isle of Wight, even very late in O 
season, and when a cold westerly breeze b»i 
been blowing hard; nor in one instanee do w« 
recollect to have seen it excelled in the Soutl 

Note 5, p. 35. — Coffee. 

Note 6, p. 35. — A Turkish pipe, (see not. 
ante). 

Note 7, p. 35. — Dancing girls. One qI 
the chief entertainments of a wealthy Mo 
hammedan after his banquet, and dari'Jg tb> 
lazy enjoyment of his pipe and coffee, 's tr » 
performance of girls maintained ivi 'ne es 
pecial purpose of dancing in las presence 
They are generally selected fro- a 'ah, harem. 

Note 8, p. 35. — There is ?a 'nuance of o 
similar incident in history. U is recorded as 
follows by Gibbon [Decline md Fall of tht 
Roman Empire, vol. vi., j. 730) " Anxiouo 
to explore with his own eye* the state of th» 
Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguisiuy 
the colour of his hair, to r'.si" Carthage in thecha 
racter of his own ambassador: and Genserii 
was afterwards mortified by the discovery, 
that he had entertuined and dismissed the 
Emperor of the Ucmans. Such an anecdote 
may be rejected as an improbable fiction ; 
but it is a fiction which would not have been 
imagined unie&s in the life of a hero." 

Note 9, p, 36. — The Dervises are a clasi 
who resemble the monks of Roman Caibo 
licism. 



NOTES. 



51 



'Note 10. p. 87 —Satan. 

Note 11, p. 87. — A similar exhibition of 
wrath has more than once been historically 
<ecorded. 

Note 12, p. 37. — A woman's name. Al- 
most all female names, in particular amongst 
the people of the east, are words signifying 
birds, dowers, scents, or other ornaments or 
luxuries which abound in their hyperbolical 
poetry. Gulnare, means the blossom of the 
pomegranate. 

Note 13, p. 40. — Lord Byron appears to 
have alluded to the case of Sir Thomas 
More and to that of Anna Boleyn. There 
are many other historical instances of similar' 
ouffoonery. 

Note 14, p. 41. — It is well known that 
.he disciples of Socrates were very urgent 



with their great master not to swallow the 
poison until after sunset. The philosopher, 
nevertheless, obeyed the mandate of his con- 
demnation, and took the potion before the sua 
went down. 

Note 15, p. 41. — The further we go to 
the southward, the less the twilight, and the 
more equal the distribution of time between 
night and day; so that the winter's day is 
longer than that in our latitude, and the 
summer's day is shorter. It is so in Greece 
(as a matter of course) where the scene i.-> laid. 

Note 16, p. 41. — The summer-houses of 
the Turks are called Kiosks. 

Note 17, p. 43. — See note ante. 

Note 18, p. 48. — It is the prevalent fashion 
in the East, to adorn the bodies of the dead 
with flowers. 



Note to Hara. 



Note 1, p. 50. — There appears to have 
been no specific period or locality assigned to 
the incidents related in the poem of Lara- 
Lord Byron at different times gave different 
accounts of his own arrangements of the 



scene, and contented himself with attributing 
entirely to fiction, to avoid the inconsistency 
of some of the personages with the country 
and customs. 



Notes to i\)t £>tege of (Eorintl). 



Note 1, p. 64. — It should be observed that 
wnce Tripolitza became the seat of the Pacha 
of the Province, Napoli di Romania ceased 
to be the chief town in the Morea. Lord 
Byron had at various times overrun the whole 
of the Grecian provinces, and was well ac- 
quainted with all the roads and by-roads, as 
well as with the towns of the Morea, of 
Attica. Albania, &c. &c. 

Note 2, p 64. — An allusion to Dervioli, 
one of the Arnaouts, who had accompanied 
the author. He appears to have retired to 
the mountains, and to have raised the stand- 
ard of revolt against the vice-royal govern- 
ment. 

Note 3, p. 65. — See note ante. 

Note 4, p. 65. — The Turcomans resemble 
the Beciouin Arabs in their method of living. 
They are an erratic people — who wander 
from place to place, pitching their tents at 
•onvenience. and removing them at pleasure. 



Note 5, p. 65. — An allusion to Ali Con- 
mourgi, who had driven the Venetians from 
the Morea, and who was afterwards killed at 
Peterwardein. 

Note 6, p. 69. — A description which has 
unfortunately but too much of reality. It is 
not at all uncommon for dead bodies to be ob- 
served floating on the Bosphorus. The fol- 
lowing quotation from Hobhouse's Travels 
will serve to attest the truth of the picture: — 
" The sensations produced by the state of 
the weather, and leaving a comfortable cabin, 
were in unison with the impressions which 
we felt, when passing under the palace of the 
sultans, and gazing at the gloomy cypresses 
which rise above the walls, we saw two dogs 
gnawing a dead body." — Hobhocse. 

Note 7, p. 69. — The Mohammedans en. 
tertain a superstitious belief with respect to 
the tuft of hair worn by them, to the effect 
that it will serve as a handle to the prophel 



518 



NOTES. 



wherewithal to hoist them ix.*o the region of 
the Houris. 

Note 8, p. 70. — An allusion to the author's 
visits to Annesley when a boy. 

Note 9, p. 72. — This passage refers to the 
occasion of an action by sea, which was 
fought at the mouth of the Dardanelles by the 
Turks against the Venetians. 

Note 10, p. 75. — The jackalis not known 



in Europe. In all parts of Asia Minor, how 
ever, that animal abounds. They make an 
especial retreat of old ruins, and Lord Byron 
has adapted the creature to another soil, 
without much violation to its habits. The 
jackal is known to follow bodies of men a» 
the sea-birds follow a ship, to secure whafc 
ever refuse may be cast out. 



Notes to ^arastna. 



Note 1, p. 76. — The subject matter of this 
Poem was somewhat too voluptuous for the 
precise but maudlin modesty of Lord Byron's 
Critics. The ostentatious prudery of the na- 
tion almost set aside Parasina, and though far 
from an inferior work even for such an author, 
11 has not been so generally known or noticed, 
ds many of the others. Lord Byron's Critics 
were in general envious, malignant opponents, 
and they were very fond of twisting all his 
productions into immoral constructions : but 
the fact is, that the drift of the most con- 
demned is quite the contrary. It were just 
as fair to condemn "Joseph Andrews," as 



immoral in its tendency, as " Don Juan,' or 
any poem of Lord Byron's. The satire oi 
vice can never be interpreted into its exalta- 
tion. Whether or not, " Parasina " is open 
to more equivocal translation is another ques- 
tion. But we are perfectly assured that the 
author never intended to celebrate and eulo 
gise a crime. 

Note 2, p. 79.— The word " haught " is 
very commonly used for "haughty," and more 
especially in the earlier writers of our lan- 
guage. It may be found in Spencer, Ben 
Johnson, Beaumont and Fletcher, Shakspere, 
&c. &c. 



Notes to tfje prisoner of GD&tllon. 



Note 1, p. 82.— The Castle of Chillon 
which juts out into the lake ol Geneva, on the 
north shore, and at the eastern end, is cele- 
brated as having been the prison of Francois 
de Bonnivard, the hero of Genevan inde- 
pendence It is known that until the year 
1535, Geneva was a dependency of the Duke 
dom of Savoy : and as by its situation, and for 
other reasons, it was a place of no mean im- 
portance, it was very jealously retained by the 
Princes of that House. On the other hand 
the Genevese entertained an hereditary hatred 
for the Savoyards, and have continued since 
their emancipation to detest their former 
masters. The Genevese had made several 
efforts to liberate themselves from the yoke of 
the Duke of Savoy, and Bonnivard, who 
flourished just at the period that the struggle 
was assuming a decided aspect, warmly par- 
ticipated in the contest. He was not a 



Genevan, but became possessed of a wealthy 
benefice at that place in 1510 He was born 
in 1496, and had been educated in the capital 
of Piedmont itself. All his associations were 
more likely to have bound him to the interests 
of the Savoyards. But a lolty spirit of inde- 
pendence, the purest integrity and sense of 
justice, and an affectionate regard for the 
people with whom hehad become incorporated, 
and whose character at that period was con- 
genial to the enlightened and progressive in- 
telligence of such a man, had completely 
enlisted him in the cause of the Genevese. 
In 1519 he became a prisoner on the occasion 
of the occupation of Geneva by the Duke of 
Savoy. He was closely confined for two 
years at Grolee, to which dungeon he had 
been despatched by the Duke. He afterwards 
contrived to effect his escape, but in 1530 was 
onee more betrayed into the hands of his ene- 



NOTES. 



511) 



mies, and was sent a close prisoner to the 
vauits of the Castle of Chillon, whence he was 
finally liberated in 1586, when the people of 
Berne occupied the Canton of Vauil. Bon- 
nivard, whose name is still held in high ve- 
neration by the Genevese, was not left unre- 
warded by the grateful towns-people. Upon 
his final return, when Geneva had already 
adopted the motto of " Post tenebras Lux," 
the country of his adoption had become pro- 
testant and free. He was provided with a 
handsome residence and pension, and became 
a member of the Republican Government. 

Note 2, p. 82. — An allusion to the effect 
which grief is reported to have had upon 
uanv eminent personages in history. 

Note 3, p. 83.— The Castle of Chillon (see 
note ante,) is situated in one of the more 
picturesque retreats of that most picturesque 
and beautiful part of the lake of Geneva. It 
consists of blank loop-holed and very heavy 
white walls, abutting at the corners in 
round towers of the same character, with cir- 
cular pointed roofs. In itself, it is by no 
means a handsome specimen of architecture, 
but the structure appears to be admirably 
adapted to the nature of the spot. The 
glistening white towers show with exquisite 
effect in the midst of the deep blue and tran- 
quil water of the Lake, and beio^ the dark 
background, formed by the wo»>dnr» H»?clivities 
of the mountains. On the land t> *e, the en- 
trance to the Castle opens into the road from 
Lausanne to Villeneuve. It is not far either 
from Vevey or the latter place ; and apart 
from its own celebrity as having been the 
dungeon in which the great Bonnivard was 
•o long confined, another charm has since been 
attached to its immediate vicinity by the rhap- 
sodies of Jean Jacques Rousseau — Clarens is 
very near at hand amongst the vintaged hills. 
•' It is said 'hat Charles the Fifth, Duke of 
Savoy, stormed and took it in 1536 ; that he 
ther? found great hidden treasures, and many 
wretched beings pining away their lives in 
these frightful dungeons, amongst whom was 
Bonnivard. On the pillar to which this un- 
fortunate man is said to have been chained, 
I observed, cut out of the stone, the name ol 
one whose beautiful poem has done much to 
heighten the interest of this dreary spot, and 
will, perhaps, do more towards rescuing from 
oblivion the names of 'Chillon* and 'Bon- 
xu vard/ than all the criel sufferings which 



that injured man endured within us damf 
and gloomy walls." — Tennant. 

Note 4, p. 85. — An allusion to a very small 
island which is situated near Villeneuve. 

Note 6, p. 86. — " It has not bten thepur- 
pose of Lord Byron to paint the peculiar cha- 
racter of Bonnivard. The object of the poem, 
like that of Sterne's celebrated sketch of the 
prisoner, is to consider captivity in the ab- 
stract, and to mark its effects in gradually 
chilling the mental powers as it benumbs and 
freezes the animal frame, until the unfortu- 
nate victim becomes, as it were, a part of his 
dungeon, and identified with his chains. 
This transmutation we believe to be founded 
on fact; at least, in the Low Countries, where 
solitude for life is substituted for capital pu- 
nishments, something like it may be wit- 
nessed. On particular days in the course of 
the year, these victims of a jurisprudence 
which calls itself humane, are presented to 
the public eye, upon a stage erected in the 
open market-place, apparently to prevent their 
guilt and their punishment from being for- 
gotten. It is scarcely possible to witness a 
sight more degrading to humanity than this 
exhibition : with matted hair, wild looks, and 
haggard features, with eyes dazzled by the 
unwonted light of the sun, and ears deafened 
and astounded by the sudden exchange of the 
silence of a dungeon for the busy hum of 
men, the wretches sit more like rude image* 
fashioned to a fantastic imitation of humanity, 
than like living and reflecting beings. In the 
course of time we are assured they generally 
become either madmen or idiots, as mind or 
matter happens to predominate, when the 
mysterious balance between them is destroyed. 
It will readily be allowed that this singular 
poem is more powerful than pleasing. The 
dungeon of Bonnivard is, like that of Ugo- 
lino, a subject too dismal for even the power 
of the painter or poet to counteract its hor- 
rors. It is the more disagreeable as affording 
human hope no anchor to rest upon, and 
describing the sufferer, though a man of talents 
and virtues, as altogether inert and powerless 
under his accumulated sufferings: yet, as a 
picture, however gloomy the colouring, it may 
rival any which Lord Byron has drawn ; nor 
is it possible to read it without a sinking ol 
the heart, corresponding with that which h« 
describes the victim to have suffered." — Shi 
Waltkb Scott. 



520 



NOTES. 



Notes to JBanfuQ. 



Note 1, p. 87. — Lord Byron, who treated 
Manfred somewhat coidly, gives a half-hu- 
morous sketch of it in one of his letters to 
Mr. Murray. The extract has been published, 
and might serve as a species of reference on 
the subject, but there is little information in 
h which may not be gathered from the work 
itself. 

The following are two extracts from the 
criticisms of contemporary writers on this 
strange but very beautiful production: — 

"In Manfred we recognise at once the 
gloom and potency of that soul which burned 
and blasted and fed upon itself, in Harold, 
and Conrad, and Lara — and which comes 
again in this piece, more in sorrow than in 
anger — more proud, perhaps, and more awful 
than ever — but with the fiercer traits of its 
misanthropy subdued, as it were, and quenched 
in the gloom of a deeper despondency. This 
piece is properly entitled a dramatic poem — 
for it is merely poetical, and is not at all a 
drama or play in the modern acceptation of 
the term. It has no action, no plot, and no 
characters ; Manfred merely muses and suffers 
from the beginning to the end. His distresses 
are the same at the opening of the scene and 
at its closing, and the temper in which they 
are borne is the same. A hunter and a priest, 
and some domestics, are indeed introduced, 
but they have no connection with the pas- 
sions or sufferings on which the interest de- 
pends; and Manfred is substantially alone 
throughout the whole piece. He holds no 
communion but with the memory of the Being 
he had loved; and the immortal Spirits whom 
he evokes to reproach with his misery, and 
their inability to relieve it These unearthly 
beings approach nearer to the character of 
pea-sons of the drama — but still they are but 
cLoral accompaniments to the performance; 
and Manfred is, in reality, the only actor and 
sufferer on the scene. To delineate his cha- 
racter indeed — to render conceivable his feel- 
ings — is plainly the whole scope and design 
of the poem ; and the conception and execu- 
tion are, in this respect, equally admirable. 
It is a grand and terrific vision of a being 
invested with superhuman attributes, in order 
that he may be capable of more than human 
sufferings, tad be sustained under them by 
more than human force «uid pride.' — Jef- 
ffSBY. 



" In this very extraordinary poem, Lot .it 

Byron has pursued the same course as in tha 
third canto of Childe Harold, anil put out his 
strength upon the same objects. The action 
is laid among the mountains of the Alps — ■ 
the characters are all, more or less, formed I 
and swayed by the operations of the magni- * 
ficent scenery around them, and every page 
of the poem teems with imagery and passion, 
though, at the same time, the mind of the poet 
is often overborne, as it were, by the strength 
and novelty of its own conceptions. Bui 
there is a still more novel exhibition of Lord 
Byron's powers in this remarkable drama. 
He has here burst into the world of spirits \ 
and, in the wild delight with which the ele- 
ments of nature seem to have inspired him, 
he has endeavoured to embody and call up 
before him their ministering agents, and to 
employ these wild personifications, as he for- 
merly employed the feelings and passions of 
man." — Professor Wilson 

Note 2, p. 89. — The period at which these 
lines were written may explain the tenor of 
Lord Byron's thought in writing them, and 
the allusion whieh they contain. It was just 
about the time that the final endeavour to 
reconcile the dispositions of his family had 
proved abortive, that the author abandoned 
himself to the peculiarly beautiful view of 
despondency, which is distinguishable in the 
colouring of all his finest productions. 

Note 3, p. 91.— See note ante. See also 
Clarendon's History of the Kebellion for an 
account of Charles the First's appearance at 
Newport, in the Isle of Wight, when the 
negociation was commenced after his con- 
finement in Carisbrooke Castle. Again, the 
memoir of " Marie Antoinette," &c. &c. 

Note 4, p. 91. — A sight not uncommon in 
Switzerland. 

Note 5, p. 91. — The mountains which 
Lord Byron ascended or visited in person 
The allusion here, is specially directed to tha 
Wengen, the Jungfrau, ;he Dent D'Argent, 
the Great and Little Giant, and the Wetter- 
horn. In this part of the mountains at par- 
ticular seasons, the fall of Avalanches is oi 
constant occurrence. 

Note 6, p. 91. — A sight peculiar to v>^ry 
mountainous regions, but not to Switzerland 
alone. The same effects, with the additional 
splendour lent by a tropcial sun, are observable 



NOTES. 



521 



the Andes. But there is a peculiar appear- 
ance in the mist, as it rolls alcng the deep 
gul leys and ravines, and precipitate valleys of 
the Alps. Standing far above the cloud which 
mantles the plain below, and yourself under 
the brightest and most spotless summer sky, 
you look down, not upon a varied expanse of 
landscape in panoramic view, .but upon an 
impenetrable ocean of vapour. The sensation 
produced by this appearance is strange enough; 
you seem detached from the world, and 
plaited alone upon your bright, but solitary 
elevation. 

Note 7, p. 93. — This is perfectly true of 
the appearance of an Alpine waterfall, on a 
bright sunny day. The Stanbach has a con- 
stant rainbow at its base. The fine spray 
fluttering about is tin-ted with all the glowing 
hues of the prism, and when you are actually 
in the midst of it, you still fee it all around you. 

Note 8, p. 93. — An allusion to the most 
striking objects about the Jungfrau. 

Note 9, p. 94. — Lord Byron here refers 
to Jambfius the philosopher, and adopts the 
anecdote told of him by Eunapius. 

Note 10, p. 95. — For the circumstances 
here alluded to, we must refer the reader to 
the following passage in Plutarch's Life of 
Cimon, (Lanohorne's Plutarch, vol. iii. p. 
179,) in which the story of Pausanias and 
Sleonice is detailed. — " It is related, that 
when Pausanias was at Byzantium, he cast 
lis eyes upon a young virgin named Cleo- 
nice of * noble family there, and insisted on 
having he., f »r a mistress. The parents, in- 
timidated by bis power, were under the hard 
necessity of giving up their daughter. The 
young woman begged that the light might be 
taken out of his apartments, that she might 
go to his bed in secrecy and silence. When 
she entered he was asleep, and she unfor- 
tunately stumbled upon the candlestick and 
shrew it down. The noise waked him suddenly, 
and be, in his confusion, thinking it was an 
enem/ -oming to assassinate him, unsheathed 
a dagger that lay by him, and plunged it into 
the virgin's heart After this he could never 
rest. Her image appeared to him every night, 
and with a menacing tone repeated this 
heroic verse, — 

' Go to the fate which pride and lust prepare !' 

The allies, highly incensed at this infamous 
action, joined Cimon tobesiegehim in Byzan- 
tium. But he found means to escape thence; 
and as he was still haunted by the spectre, he 



is said to have applied to a temple at Heraclea, 
where the manes of the dead were consulted. 
There he invoked the spirit of Cleonice. and 
entreated her pardon. She appeared, and told 
him 'he would soon be delivered from all Ins 
troubles, after his return to Sparta:' in which, 
it seems, his death was enigmatically foretold. 
These particulars we have from many histo- 
rians." 

Note 11, p. 95. — An allusion to some in- 
cident which occurred to Lord Byron on his 
approach to the Grindenwald. 

Note 12, p. 98. — Over this fine drama, a 
moral feeling hangs like a sombrous thunder 
cloud. No other guilt but that so darkly sha- 
dowed out could have furnished so dreadful 
an illustration of the hideous aberrations ol 
human nature, however noble and majestic, 
when left a prey to its desires, its passions, 
and its imagination. The beauty, at one time 
so innocently adored, is at last soiled, pro. 
faned, and violated. Affection, love, guilt, 
horror, remorse, and death, come in terrible 
succession, yet all darkly linked together. 
We think of Astarte as young, beautiful, inno- 
cent — guilty — lost — murdered — buried — 
judged — pardoned; but still, in her permitted 
visit to earth, speaking in a voice of sorrow, 
and with a countenance yet pale with mortal 
trouble. We had but a glimpse of her in her 
beauty and innocence; but, at last, she rises 
up before us in all the mortal silence of a 
ghost, with fixed, glazed, and passionless eyes, 
revealing death, judgment, and eternity. The 
moral breathes and burns in every word, — in 
sadness, misery, insanity, desolation, and 
death. The work is " instinct with spirit," — > 
and in the agonv and distraction, and all its 
dimly imagined causes, we behold, though 
broken up, confused, and shattered, the ele- 
ments of a purer existence. — Wilson. 

Note 13, p. 99. — An allusion to the sui. 
cide of Otho after his discomfiture at BrixeU 
lum. (See Plutarch's Livse.) Also the Elegy 
of Martial on this event 

Note 14, p. 100. — An expression and 
sentiment which abounds in the lighter or 
in- the more serious writings of Lord Byron. 
That he was haunted by a dreary sense o/ 
desolation, is evident from some, even of the 
earliest fragments which he has left to the 
world. His kind of intellect was not easily 
satisfied with ordinary society; there was no- 
thing congenial in the every-day converse of 
the world, so that he was driven to brood 
within himself, and as he could find no reaJ 



52 



NOTES. 



associate beyond the pale of his own imagi- 
nation, it is not to be wondered at, if he gave 
evidence of a desolate species of being. 

Notk 15, p. 100. — Lord Byron has fairly 
acknowledged, that, although he began by 
being sceptical on the subject of the immor- 
tality of the soul, he was cured of that scep- 
ticism. There is therefore an inconsistency 
between some expressions in his earlier writ- 
ings and this, but the inconsistency is one 
which is occasioned by an avowed change of 
opinion. 

Note 16, p. 100. — There are three only, 
even among the great poets of modern times, 
who have chosen to depict, in their full shape 
and vigour, those agonies to which great and 
meditative intellects are, in the present pro- 
gress of human history, exposed by the eternal 
recurrence of a deep and discontented scep- 
ticism. But there is only one who has dared to 
represent himself as the victim of those name- 
less and undefinable sufferings. Goethe chose 
for his doubts and his darkness the terrible 
disguise of the mysterious Faustus. Schiller, 
with still greater boldness, planted the same 
anguish in the restless, haughty, and heroic 
bosom of Wallenstein. But Byron has sought 
no external symbol in which to embody the 
inquietudes of his soul. He takes the world, 
and all that it inherits, for his arena and his 
spectators ; and he displays himself before 
their gaze, wrestling unceasingly and ineffec- 
tually with the demon that torments him. At 
times, there is something mournful and de- 
pressing in his scepticism ; but oftener it is of 
a high and solemn character, approaching to 
the very verge of a confiding faith. What- 
ever the poet may believe, we, his readers, 
always feel ourselves too much ennobled and 
elevated, even by bis melancholy, not to be 



confirmed in our own belief by the very doubu 
so majestically conceived and uttered. His 
scepticism, if it ever approaches to a creed, 
carries with it its refutation in its grandeur. 
There is neither philosophy nor religion in 
those bitter and savage taunts which have 
been cruelly thrown out, from many quarters, 
against those moods of mind which are invo- 
luntary, and will not pass away ; the shadows 
and spectres which still haunt his imagination 
may once have disturbed our own; — through 
his gloom there are frequent flashes of illumi- 
nation ; — and the sublime sadness which to 
him is breathed from the mysteries of mortal 
existence, is always joined with a longing 
after immortality, and expressed in language 
that is itself divine — Wilson. 

Note 17, p. 100. — An allusion to the mat 
ter of the second and fourth verses of the 
sixth chapter of Genesis. — " And it came to 
pass that the Sons of God saw the daughters 
of men, that they were fair." — " There were 
giants in the earth in those days ; and also 
after that, when the Sons of God came in 
unto the daughters of men, and they bare 
children to them, the same became mighty 
men, which were of old, men of renown." 

Note 18, p. 101. — "But what can I say of 
the Coliseum ? It must be seen ; to describe 
it I should have thought impossible, if I had 
not read ' Manfred.' To see it aright, as the 
Poet of the North tells us of the fair Melrose, 
one ' must see it by the pale moonlight.' The 
stillness of night, the whispering, echoes, the 
moonlight shadows, and the awful grandeur 
of the impending ruins, form a scene of ro- 
mantic sublimity, such as Byron alone could 
describe as it deserves. His description is 
the very thing itself." — Matthews's Diary 
of an Invalid. 



Notts to <2Dam, 



Note 1, p 104.— That the Old Testament 
contains repeated passages which directly 
allude to a future being, is incontestable, 
and it is as certain also that the drift of the 
whob history of Abraham and his descend- 
ants b'iars i similar interpretation. So con- 
stant, in fact, and so often reiterated, are the 
positive indications of futurity, that it were 
quite supererogatory to cite any here. 

Note 2, p. 105. — " Prayer," said Lord 



Byron, at Cephalonia, " does not onsist in 
the act of kneeling, nor in repeating certain 
words in u solemn manner. Devotion is tha 
affection of the heart, and this I feel; for 
when I view the wonders of creation, I bow 
to the majesty of heaven; and when I feel the 
enjoymentof life, health, and happiness, I feel 
grateful to God for having bestowed these 
upon me." — Kennedy's Cot versitions 
p. 135. 



NOTES. 



523 



Note 3, p. 105. — This passage affords a 
key to the temper anil frame of mind of Caia 
throughout the piece. He disdains the li- 
mited existence allotted to him ; he has a 
rooted horror of death, attended with a vehe- 
ment curiosity as to his nature ; and he nou- 
rishes a sullen anger against his parents, to 
whose misconduct he ascribes his degraded 
state. Added to this, he has an insatiable 
i thirst for knowledge beyond the bounds pre- 
scribed to mortality ; and this part of the poem 
bears a strong resemblance to Manfred, whose 
counterpart, indeed, in the main points of 
character, Cain seems to be. — Campbell. 

Note 4, p. 106. — Cain's description of the 
approach of Lucifer would have shone in the 
" Paradise Lost." There is something spiri- 
tually fine in this conception of the terror of 
presentiment of coming evil.— Jeffrey. 

Note 6, p. 107. — " In this long dialogue, 
the tempter tells Cain (who is thus far sup- 
posed to be ignorant of the fact) that the soul 
is immortal, and that " souls who dare use 
their immortality " are condemned by God to 
be wretched everlastingly. This sentiment, 
which is the pervading moral (if we may call 
it so) of the play, is developed in the lines 
which follow." — Heber. The criticism is 
neither true nor just, and Lord Byron repu- 
diates the inuendo with great reason. It 
were absurd to represent Cain and Satan like 
two archangels of light. 

Note 6, p. 107.— The tree of life was 
doubtless a material tree, producing material 
fruit, proper as such for the nourishment of 
the body; but was it not also set apart to be 
partaken of as a symbol or sacrament of that 
celestial principle which nourishes the soul to 
immortality? — Bishop Horns. 

Note 7, p. 108. — It may appear a very 
prosaic, but it is certainly a very obvious cri- 
ticism on these passages, that the young 
family of mankind had, long ere this, been 
quite familiar with the death of animals — 
some of whom Abel was in the habit of offer- 
ing up as sacrifices ; so that it is not quite 
conceivable that they should be so much at 
a loss to conjecture what death was. — 
Jeffrey. 

Note 8, p. 115. — It is not very easy to 
perceive what natural or rational object the 
Devil proposes to himself in carrying his 
disciple through the abyss of space, to show 
him that repository of which we remember 
hearing something i l our infant days, " where 
the old moons are hung up to dry." To 



prove that there is a life beyond the grave, 
was surely no part of his business when he 
was engaged in fostering the indignation of 
one who repined at the necessity of dying. 
And, though it would seem, that entire Hades 
is, in Lord Byron's picture, a place of suffer 
ing, yet, when Lucifer himself had premised 
that these sufferings were the lot of those 
spirits who had sided with him against 
Jehovah, is it likely that a more accurate 
knowledge of them would increase Cain's 
eagerness for the alliance, or that he would 
not rather have inquired whether a better 
fortune did not await the adherents of the 
triumphant side? At all events, &e spec- 
tacle of many ruined worlds was more likely 
to awe a mortal into submission, than to 
rouse him to hopeless resistance ; and, even 
if it made him a hater of God, had no na- 
tural tendency to render him furious against 
a brother who was to be his fellow-sufferer. — 
Heber. 

Note 9, p. 115. — " Death, the last and 

most dreadful of all evils, is so far from 

being one, that it is the infallible cure for 

all others— 

• To die, is landing on some silent shore, 

Where billows never beat, nor tempests 

roar : 
Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis 
o'er. 
But was it an evil ever so great, it could not 
be remedied but by one much greater, which 
is, by living forever; by which means our 
wickedness, unrestrained by the prospect of 
a future state, would grow so insupportable, 
our sufferings so intolerable by perseverance 
and our pleasures so tiresome by repetition, 
that no being in the universe could be so 
completely miserable as a species of immortal 
men. We have no reason, therefore, to look 
upon death as an evil, or to fear it as a pu 
nishment, even without any supposition of a 
future life : but il we consider it as a passage 
to a more perfect state, oi a remove only in 
an eternal succession of still improving states 
(for which we have the strongest reasons), it 
will then appear a new favour from the divine 
munificence ; and a man must be as absurd 
to repine at dying, as a traveller would be 
who proposed to himself a delightful tour 
through various unknown countries, to la- 
ment that he cannot take up his resi<f ?nce at 
the first dirty inn which he baits at on the 
road. The instability of human life, or of the 
changes of its successive periods, of which w« 



524 



NOTES. 



bo frequently complain, are no more than the 
accessary progress of it to this necessary con- 
clusion ; and are so far from being evils de- 
serving these complaints, that they are the 
source of our greatest pleasures, as they are 
the source of all novelty, from which our 
greatest pleasures are ever derived. The 
continual successions of seasons in the human 
life, by daily presenting to us new scenes, 
render it agreeable, and, like those of the 
year, afford us delights by their change, 
which the choicest of them could not give us 
by their continuance. In the spring of life, 
the gilding of the sunshine, the verdure of the 
fields, and the variegated paintings of the 
sky, are so exquisite in the eyes of infants at 
their first looking abroad into a new world, 
as nothing perhaps afterwards can equal. 
The heat ami vigour of the succeeding sum- 
mer of youth ripen for us new pleasures, — 
the blooming maid, the nightly revel, and the 
jovial chase : the serene autumn of complete 
manhood feasts us with the golden harvest of 
our worldly pursuits ; nor is the hoary winter 
of old age destitute of its peculiar comforts 
and enjoyments, of which the recollection and 
relation of those past are perhaps none of the 
least ; and at last death opens to us a new 
prospect, from whence we shall probably look 
back upon the diversions and occupations of 
this world with the same contempt we do now 
on our tops and hobby-horses, and with the 
same surprise that they could ever so much 
entertain or engage us." — Jenvns. — " These," 
says Dr. Johnson, " are sentiments which, 
though not new, may be read with pleasure 
and profit, in the. thousandth repetition." 

Note 10, p. 116. — A speculation of Lord 
Byron's, which is not without much of 
reason, although it might be sneered at by 
the orsr accurate men of science on the one 
hand, as by the straight-laced minions of 
orthodoxy on the other. There is at least 
this comfort in admitting the origin of man- 
kind as it is recorded in Genesis, that it 
saves one the trouble of an endless and pro- 
fitless research. And, after all, the matter is 
not of the remotest con-sequence to man-kind. 
One hypothesis is just as good as another. 
The only difference is, that some are more 
consoling and satisfactoiy than others. The 
whole matter, after all, resolves itself into the 
idea which has always prevailed, and which 
alone is accommodated to the intelligence ol 
man, that the world (our world,) in its present 
construction, had a beginning; and that the 



simplest way of accounting ror its ort^, i 
(apart from any imperative dogma or revel* 
tion,) is to attribute it at once to the maste* 
hand of a Creator. 

Note 11, p. 116. — Hades is a place, in 
Lord Byron's description, very different from 
all that we had anticipated. He suppose* 
that the world which we now inhabit had 
been preceded by many successive worlds, 
which had each, in turn, been created and 
ruined ; and the inhabitants of which he de- 
scribes, on grounds sufficiently probable for 
poetry, as proportioned, in bodily and intel- 
lectual strength, to those gigantic specimens 
of animal existence whose remains still per- 
plex the naturalist- But he not only places 
the pre-Adamite giants in Hades, biit the 
ghosts of the Mammoth and Megatheriau, 
their contemporaries, and, above all, tha 
phantoms of the worlds themselves which 
these beings inhabited, with their mountains, 
oceans, and forests, all gloomy and sad toge- 
ther, and (we suppose he means) in a state ot 
eternal suffering. We really think that this 
belongs to that species of sublime, which is 
considerably less than a single step removed 
from the ridiculous. — Heber. 

Note 12, p. 120. — "It would be to no 
purpose to suppose two such opposite prin- 
ciples. For, admit that a being infinitely 
mischievous were infinitely cunning, and in- 
finitely powerful, yet it could do no evil, be- 
cause the opposite principle, of infinite good- 
ness, being also infinitely wise and powerful, 
they would tie up one another's hands: so 
that upon this supposition, the notion of a 
deity would signify just -nothing ; and, by 
virtue of the eternal opposition and equality 
of these principles, they would keep one ano- 
ther at perpetual bay ; and, being an equal 
match for one another, instead of being two 
deities, they would be two idols, able to do 
neither good nor evil." — Tillotson. 

Note 13, p. 120. — " Whatever we enjoy 
is purely a free gift from our Creator ; but 
that we enjoy no more, can never, sure, be 
deemed an injury, or a just reason to question 
his infinite benevolence. All our happiness 
is owing to his goodness ; but that it is no 
greater, is owing only to ourselves; that is. 
to our not having any inherent right to any 
happiness, or even to any existence at all."— 
Jenyns. 

Note 14, p. 127. — The names of the rivers 
which enclosed the region of iuant first purity 
and happiness. 



NOTES. 62; 



Notes to ^ours of Brltness. 



Notb 1, p. 130.— The Earl of Carlisle is who did not become possessors of the ibbey 



Aere indicated 

Note 2, p. 530. — See Bosw ell's Life of 
Jiksjon, vol. viii., p. 91. London : 1835. 

Note 3, p. 530. — This was at least one of 
the first productions of the greatest of modern 
poets, and with the natural love which every 
author bears towards his literary oflspring, 
Lord Byron was very jealous of lacerating it 
afterwards. He was only fourteen years old 
when this piece was written, and much as his 
first productions wore abused, it might pass 
muster in collections of greater pretensions 
Uian was the first volume which was issued 
from the press under his name. 

Note 4, p. 130. — This fragment refers to 
the son of one of Lord Byron's tenants on the 
Newstead Estate, with whom the author con- 
tracted a very early and warm friendship. 

Note 5, p. 131. — This piece is addressed 
to Lord Delawarr. 

Note 6, p. 131. — See note ante. 
Note 7, p. 131. — Lord Byron had a pecu- 
liar antipathy to elaborate inscriptions and 
pompous sepulchres, from his earliest years. 
He always indicated his wish that whoever 
performed the last duties for himself would be 
as brief and simple as possible in marking his 
final resting place He left directions of the 
same kind in a will. 

Note 8, p. 131. — The antiquity of New- 
stead Abbey is undoubted It dates back to 
the latter end of the twelfth century, and 
p issed from its monastic possessions into the 
hands of Lord Byron's ancestors at the period 
when all establishments of the kind were 
p rested from ecclesiastical corporations. 

K :TS 9, p. 131. — The part taken in the 
Holy Wars by the ancestors of Lord Byron 
is riore than problematical- -if indeed it be 
mi re than a piece of faniilj tradition : they, 
at least, attained no historical celebrity, and 
the name does not appear vsry prominently 
until much later in the records of this country 
itself. Mr. Moore has endeavoured to ac 
count for it, by explaining some piece of 
decoration in Newstead Abbey. But it must 
be bome in mind either that this symbol is of 
modern construction, or that it had no con- 
leetion whatever witt.O»£ family of the author. 



umii the reign of Henry VIII., if not later. 

Note 10, p. 131.— f In the park of Hoist. 
ley, there was a castle, some of the ruins o. 
which are yet visible, called Horistan Castle, 
which ^ was the chief mansion of Ralph de 
Burun's successors." — Thoroton. 

Note 11, p. 132. — Some of the ancestors 
of Lord Byron are recorded to have served at 
the siege of Calais, temp. Edward ill. as well 
as at Cressy. 

Note 12, p. 132.— The field of Marstoa 
Moor, so fatal to the royalists in the civil 
wars. 

Note 13, p. 132.— See Clarendon's Hit- 
tory of the Rebellion. 

Note 14, p. 132.— See the same: in which 
Sir Nicholas Byron is frequently mentioned 
with honour amongst the most zealous par- 
tisans of Charles I. 

Note 15, p. 132. — This piece as well as 
some others which are inserted here, appears 
to have been written during Lord Byron's 
pupilage at Harrow ; but whether as a por- 
tion of his class-work or not, is not apparent. 
Note 16, p. 133. — An allusion to the seem- 
ing inequality in the fate of individuals. 

Note 17, p. 134. — Lord Byron somewhere 
relates that some of his earliest effusions in 
the shape of school exercises, were not by 
any means flatteringly received by Dr Drury, 
then head master at Harrow. The reason 
it would seem was, that most of these were 
written against the inclination and as tasks, 
and it must be admitted, that it was not until 
the publication of " English Bards and Scotch 
Reviewers" that he had signalised his pre- 
eminent talents. No one dreamt of his be- 
coming an illustrious Poet during his school 
career. 

Note 18, p. 137. — Lord Byron took great 
delight in the translations of the minor works 
of Camoens published by Lord Strangford 
about this period. 

Note 19, p. 137. — " The latter years of 
Camoens present a mournful picture, not 
merely of individual calamity, but of national 
ingratitude He whose best years had been 
devoted to the service of his country, he who 
had taught her lkerary fame to rival th« 



526 



NOTES. 



proudest efforts of Italy itself, and who seemed 
born to revive the remembrance of ancient 
gentility and Lusian heroism, was compelled 
to wander through the streets, a wretched de- 
pendent on casual contribution. One friend 
alone remained to smooth his downward path, 
and guide his steps to the grave with gentleness 
and consolation. It was Antonio, his slave, a 
native of Java, who had accompanied Camo- 
ens to Europe, after having rescued him from 
the waves, when shipwrecked at the mouth of 
the Mecon This faithful attendant was wont 
to seek alms throughout Lisbon, and at night 
shared the produce of the day with his poor 
and broken-hearted master. But his friendship 
was employed in vain. Camoens sank beneath 
the pressure of penury and disease, and died 
in an alms-house early in the year 1579." — 
Strangford. 

Note 20, p. 137. — Dr. Drury resigned his 
place of head-master at Harrow, in the month 
of March, 1805. He was succeded by Dr. 
Butler. 

Note 21, p. 137 — Lord Byron ever pre- 
served a very great regard for Dr. Drury, and 
has frequently expressed himself to that effect 
at later periods. 

Note 22, p. 137. — The Author has himself 
stated, what he must have felt, that he was 
by no means a general favourite amongst 
his school-fellows — not but that he contracted 
friendships at Harrow, which 'did not cease 
with his school-days. 

Note 23, p. 137.— The Duke of Dorset, 
who was killed whilst hunting in Ireland. He 
was thrown from his horse and did not long 
survive the accident. 

Note 24, p. 137 — An allusion to the fag- 
ging system at public schools. 

Note 25, p. 138 — It does not aprcar that 
the remark is levelled at any person in par- 
ticular. 

Note 26, p. 131.—" Thomas Sackville 
Lird Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While 
a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his 
tragedy of Gorboduc,' which was played before 
Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. His 
tragedy, and his contribution of the Induction 
and Legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the 
" Mirror for Magistrates," comprise the po- 
etical history o*' Sackville. The rest of it was 
poetical. In 1604, he was created Earl of 
Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the 
council table, in consequence of a dropsy on 
the brain." — Campbell. 

None 27, p. 138.— Charles Sackville. Earl 



of Dorset, who flourishes temp. Charier Ii 
and William III. and who was as remarkable 
for his valour, as for his talent, taste, and 
patronage of literature. See the casual poems 
of Dryden, Prior, Pope, Congreve, and other* 
of that period. 

Note 28, p. 139.— Suggested by the re- 
ceipt of intelligence reporting the death of the 
young Duke of Dorset, who had been one 
of Lord Byron's most constant and attached 
associates. 

Note 29, p. 139. — It is well and generally 
known that the peculiar temper and tenor of 
Lord Byron's after life was attributable to his 
early disappointment at Annesley. According 
to Mr. Moore, Miss Cha worth was worthy of 
the esteem and admiration of her hopeless 
suitor. It was a.tout the year 1804, that the 
passion which proved so fatal to his happi- 
ness was conceived or confirmed. It does 
not appear that Miss Chaworth ever enter- 
tained any reciprocal attachment for the poet ; 
and but a year after he had avowed his pas- 
sion, *he was married to Mr. Musters. 

Note 30, p. 139. — An allusion to the 
" Devil on two Sticks," — the " Diable Boi 
teux," one of the clever satires of Le Sage. 

Note 31, p. 139. — Referring to the can- 
didates who appeared to contest the election 
for the University of Cambridge after the 
death of Pitt. Lord Henry Petty, and Lord 
Palmerston were the persons. 

Note 32, p. 139.— Edward Harvey, third 
Lord Hawke. 

Note 33, p. 139. — -Alluding to the criticism 
on Greek metres, by Scale. 

Note 34, p. 139. — A very fair satire on 
the spurious Latin of schoolmen. 

Note 35, p. 139. — The discovery of the 
fact illustrated by the forty-seventh Proposi- 
tion of the first book of Euclid, which has 
been attributed to Pythagoras. 

Note 36, p. 140. — Alluding to the chapel 
gown worn by the boys on saints' -days. 

Note 37, p. 140. — Lord Byron's character 
was as fervid and impetuous in his boyhood 
as it ever was — a thing which is well illus- 
trated by the warmth and brevity of his 
school associations. He generally spoke of 
them afterwards to this effect. 

Note 38, p. 140.— Referring to his pugi- 
listic success at Harrow. 

Note 39, p. 140. — To this day, one of the 
tombs in the church-yard at Harrow is pointed 
out, as having been Lord Byron's favouritu 
retreat. Here, with the beautiful view to the 



NOTES. 



527 



■outh-westward, and with Windsor in the 

distance before him, would he sit for hours, 
indulging his meditative inclinations. 

Note 40, p. 140. — He was remarkably 
fond of selecting pi»ces of passionate vehe- 
mence for declamation on the Speech Days. 

Note 41, p. 140. — The person indicated, 
is Mossop, who was contemporary on the 
Klage*with Gariick. 

I»'ote 42, p. 140. — Dr. Drury appears to 
have had more idea of Lord Byron's decla- 
matory powers than of his literary abilities. 
Lord Byron himself mentions the fact with 
something approaching to a gentle sarcasm 
on Dr. Drury 's lack of judgment. 

Note 43, p. 141. — There is a proverb in 
Spanish, of which this is an accurate para- 
phrase or rather translation. 

Note 44, p. 141. — Lord Byron refers to 
one of those casual and equivocal attachments, 
of which there were many in his youth. It 
has not transpired who the heroine was, but 
enough has been gathered to determine that 
her station and circumstances subjected her 
to some scandal in her intercourse with a 
young peer 

N»te 45, p. 142. — These lines which re- 
late to a circumstance which seems to have 
exercised a considerable effect upon Lord 
ByroM, were directed to Miss Houson. 

Note 46, p. 142. — For the use of this ex- 
pression, see Gray's Ode : 

" Hurtle through the darken'd air." 

Note 47, p. 143. — The legal denomination 
of a person under age — a minor. 

Note 48, p. 143. — Alluding to the state 
of his mind at the time of his matriculation 
at the University of Cambridge. Lord Byron 
had a predilection for Oxford, and was not 
best pleased at being sent to the other Uni- 
versity, and moreover, he would according to 
his own account have preferred remaining ;.t 
Harrow, to either. In addition to these little 
vexations, his temp-jr was at the time very 
much ruffled by the circumstances attending 
his passionate attachment for Miss Chawortk, 
who was married in the same year (1805.) It 
is not to be wondered at, that a person of 
such keen and deep sensibility as Lord Byron 
should have been soured by this combination 
of contingencies, more especially when it is 
remembered that he was left absolutely with- 
out a home to attract him, or, which was 
endeared to him, ami without any one appa- 
rently to evince the slightest solicitude re- 



specting his career or his well-being. Ha 
describes himself in his Diary a-s having b<-eu 
at this period " about as unsocial as a wolf 
taken from the troop." 

Note 49, p. 145.— The pibroch is not the 
instrument, as here indicated, but the air 
which is such a favourite amongst the bag 
pipe players of Scotland. 

Note 50, p. 149.— An allusion to a fete 
amongst the Highlanders. 

Note 51, p. 150. — Creusa, who perished 
in the conflagration of Troy. 

Note 52, p. 153.— The fable of Medea and 
Jason is far too well known to need uni- 
madversion here. This is a translation of one 
of the Choruses in the celebrated play 
of Euripides; and although it be correct as 
a paraphrase, it is rather that than a trans, 
lation. 

Note 53, p. 153. — Refer to the passage in 
the original. 

Note 54, p. 153. — The intention of this 
piece is not to censure the person, but the 
office. 

Note 55, p. 153. — Alluding to Demo* 
thenes. 

Note 55*, p. 153. — An allusion to the de- 
nomination of the dignitaries, who act as 
supervisors of the Chapels at the University. 

Note 56, p. 154. — Given to the Author 
by Eddlestone, a chorister at Cambridge, to 
whom Lord Byron was particularly partial. 

Note 57, p. 155 — An allusion to his par- 
ticipation in several private Theatrical per- 
formances, which he has recorded as so many 
boyish triumphs. 

Note 58, p 156. — The fragment to which 
Lord Byron replied through the medium of 
the Morning Chronicle, had been published in 
the columns of the Morning Post. 

Note 59, p. 156. — Harrow. 

Note 60, p. 157.— Miss E. Pigot. 

Note 61, p. 158 — One of the most lofty 
and strikingly beautiful of the mountains of 
Scotland. Lord Byron's residence in the 
neighbourhood during his childhood had fur- 
nished him with some pleasing and wild re- 
collections on the subject. 

Note 62, p. 158. — The Scotch are not so 
fond of perverting the pronunciation of their 
words as the English; the word in Scotch i* 
pronounced as it is spelt. 

Note 63, p. 158. — It is well known that 
Lord Byron was descended, thrrngh his mo- 
ther's family, from the branch of the house of 
Gordon, which by mairia-je hud become co' 1 



528 



NOTES. 



nected with the royal race of Stuart. The 
Gordons were, many of them, amongst the 
most zealous adherents of that ill-fated family 
after its final expulsion from Great Britain, 
and were involved in the luckless campaign 
of 1745. 

Note 64, p. 158. — It is merely by con- 
jecture, or by poetical analogy, that Lord 
Byron attributes to some of his forefathers 
tt grave on Culloden Muir. 

Note 65, p. 158. — A part of the highlands 
of Scotland. 

Note 66, p. 158 — An allusion to the fa- 
bulous friendship of antiquity. 

Note 67, p. 159. — Alluding to Mr. Becher, 
who signalised himself by several projects for 
the improvement of the condition of the 
working classes. 

Note 69, p. 159. — This is the second piece 
on the same subject. 

Note 70, p. 159. — An allusion to the foun- 
dation of the priory of Newstead by Henry II., 
which was one of his acts of amends for 
the assassination of Thomas a Becket, ac- 
cording to the tradition. It is, at all events, 
ascertained that this institution took its rise 
verv shortlv after the above related event. 

Note 71, p. 160.— The Badge of the Cru- 
saders. 

Note 72, p. 160. — The Scotch term for 
twilight. 

Note 73, p. 160. — The religious establish- 
ment of Newstead Abbey was consecrated to 
the Holv Virgin. 

Note 74, p. 160.— (See note ante). 

Note 75, p. 160. — An allusion to a siege, 
of which Newstead became the scene, during 
the civil wars. 

Note 76, p. 160. — See Clarendon's His- 
tory of the Rebellion, and other contemporary 
royalist accounts, for the services rendered by 
the members of the family of Byron to the 
royal cause. 

Note 77, p. 160. — An allusion to the fate 
of Lord Falkland, who was killed at one of 
the battles of Newbury and who was at that 
time accompanying the regiment raised and 
commanded by one of the Byrons. 

Note 78, p. 161. — It is recorded amongst 
the old wives, tales of that period that a por- 
tentous storm accompanied the passing breath 
of the Great Protector. Such was the super- 
stition of either party that the fact (which is 
probable enough in itself) was converted into 
an omen of vast consequence to the fate of 
th»- realm and the petiole. It was conve- 



niently interpreted by the one party, and fear 
fully understood bv the other. 

Note 79, p. 162.— Charles II. 

Note 80 p. 162. — An allusion to the dis- 
covery of a brass eagle in the water which 
adorns the grounds at Newstead, which was 
reported to have belonged to the ecclesiastical 
occupants of the domain in olden time. 

Note 81, p. 163— Dr. Drory, (see note 
ante). 

Note 82, p. J 63. — This passage refers to 
the method adopted by Lord Byron to preserve 
the school-room at Harrow during the "barring 
out," which occurred in his pupilage at that 
college. 

Note 83, p. 163. — We need not search the 
records of the school, or seek for information 
from other sources than from Lord Byron's 
own writings (from his Diary, Correspon- 
dence, «fec.) to gather an idea of his course of 
life whilst at Harrow. He must certainly 
have been as troublesome and mischievous a 
pupil as ever wearied a master. 

Note 84, p. 164. — Lord Byron was deeply 
and acutely sensitive. The recurrence of 
some old association to his mind : the sud- 
den and unexpected meeting with some former 
companion, ever occasioned uncontrollable 
emotion within him. We have very many 
remarkable anecdotes illustrative of this trait 
of tenderness in his character. He has him- 
self ingeniously recorded several instances of 
the kind in his private memoranda ; and those 
of his acquaintances who have afforded their 
tribute to the literature of the age have en- 
riched his own accounts with many interesting 
details. It is evident enough from a multi- 
tude of incidents and circumstances of this kind 
that if he appeared selfish or acted selfishly, 
the failing had been induced by his most 
unpropitiotis introduction into the world and 
by the variety of embittering casualties which 
accompanied it: to all of which, most likely, 
the world owes the most beautiful of poetry. 

Note 85, p. 164 — It has been reserved 
for our own time to produce one distinguished 
example of the Muse having descended upon 
a bard of a wounded spirit, and lent her lyre 
to tell, and we trust to soothe, afflictions of no 
ordinary description : afflictions originating 
probably in that singular combination of feel- 
ing, which has been called the poetical tem- 
perament, and which has so often saddened 
the flays of those on whom it has been con 
ferred. If ever a man could lay claim to that 
character in all its strength and all its weak. 



NOTES. 



529 



Hess, ■with its unbounded range of enjoyment, 
and its exquisite sensibility of pleasure and of 
p;iin, it must certainly be granted to Lord 
Byron. His own tale is partly told in two 
lines of Lara : 

*Leri by his sire, too young such loss to know, 
Lord of himself — that heritage of woe !" 

Srit Walter Scott. 

Note 86, p. 164. — The Honourable John 
Wingfield, aic officer in the Coldstream 
Guards, and brother to Lord Powerscourt. 

Note 87, p. 164.— Mr. Cecil Tattersall. 

Note 8S, p. 164. — Alluding to an incident 
which had well-nigh cost Lord Byron his life. 

Note 89, p. 164. — The Nobleman referred 
to, is the second Earl of Clare, who was a 
schoolfellow of Lord Bvron's, at Harrow. 

Note 90, p. 164— The fifth Earl of De- 
laware, who was also an old associate of the 
author's. 

Note 91, p. 165. — Mr. Edward Long. 

Note 92, p. 165. — The speeches at Harrow. 

Note 93, p. 165. — Alluding to some com- 
plimentary expressions elicited from Dr. 
Drury by Lord Byron's first recital. 

Note 94, p. It56. — There is a French pro- 
verb to the following effect: — 

" L'amitie e'est l'amour sans ailes." 

Note 95, p. 166. — The work of James 

Montgomery. 

Note 96, p. 166. — A general allusion to 
the indistinct notion which is commonly pos- 
sessed, concerning the heroes of history, 
whose names are in everybody's mouth. It 
is the prevailing habit of many persous to be 
perpetually citing examples of illustrious his- 
torical personages, without the least idea of 
their origin, &c. <fcc. 

Note 97, p. 167. — Lord Byron was par- 
ticularly alive to the smallness of his means, 
compared to the rank which he held ; and 
being conscious of his own superiority, he 
was very tender of being slighted by the vul- 
gar pomp and ostentation ol wealth, and 
consequently preferred to keep aloof from the 
society which he felt would submit him to 
indignities which were unworthy of him. He 
thus saved society the humiliation of having 
discarded so great a man. 

The same sentiment is expressed in a fai 
more recent anonymous poen : — 

** Some men 'tis true, however great their soul, 
Were born, and have been suckled in 
contempt ; 

3< 



But, as the mighty floods of fortune roll, 
May they not make one prosperous at- 
tempt? 

Those floods are far beyond the wide control 
Of which some little magnates have e'er 
dreamt ; 

And if the scora'd ones should once chance 
to float, 

How will the scomers' spleen then scald 
their throat." 

Note 98, p. 167. — An adaptation of Vir- 
gil's beautiful episode, of which Nisus and 
Euryalus are the heroes. 

Note 99, p. 169.— Harrow. 

Note 100, p. 170.— Lord Clare. 

Note 101, p. 170. — An allusion to an ac- 
cidental coldness, which seems to have arisen 
between Lord Byron and the Earl of Clare. 

Note 102, p. 171. — Mr. Lou;;, who was a 
companion of Lord Byron's at Harrow, and 
also a fellow student with him at Cambridge. 

Note 103, p. 172. — Miss Chaworth, or as 
she then had become, Mrs. Musters. 

Note 104, p. 172. — A term synonymous 
with Saxon, and applied by the highlanders 
to the people of the lowlands, or of Eng- 
land. 

Note 105, p. 173. — The passage of the 
Psalm lv. 6, " And I said, Oh ! that I had 
the wings of a dove, for then I would fly 
away and be at rest," is readily suggested to 
the reader. 

Note 106, p. 173. — Morven, a mountain 
in the county of Aberdeen, in Scotland. It 
is of very considerable elevation. The ex 
pression here applied to it is of frequent usa 
in the poems of Ossian. 

Note 107, p. 173. — A phenoiaenon which 
has already been spoken of in the Dotes to 
" Manfred," (which see). In Scotland, as in 
the Alps, especially on the loftier mountains, 
it very often happens that a thunder-storm 
will be observable below, whilst all is as 
clear as can be above. The whirl of the 
clouds, as if driven by an impetuous current 
of wind, may be observed beneath one in this 
manner when the atmosphere is perfectly un- 
disturbed where one is stationed. 

Note 108, p. 173. — Miss Duff— since Mrs. 
Cockburn. 

Note 109, p 174 — Colbleen; the name of 
a mountain in Scotland. 

Note 110, p. 175. — Alluding to the cri- 
ticism which appeared upon an Edition o/ 
the " British A^acreon. ' 

Note 11 1, p 175. — Alluding to a three* 

l 1 w 



530 



NOTES. 



oned hostile meeting between a certain an- mate daughter of Lord Byion, was buried in 
thor and his critic. the church at Harrow, acoording to his special 

Notb 112, p. 176. — Allegra, the illegiti- request. 



jEiotes to Snglfefi Partis mil Scotch Hebfefoers. 



Note 1, p. 177. — Hobhouse is here re- 
ferred to. 

Note 2, p. 178.— See the passage in Ju- 
venal, Sat. i. 

"Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne 
reponam, 
Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri ?" 

Notb 3, p. 178.— The epithet is peculiarly 
illustrative of Fitzgerald's caste of literary 
productions; but it was really more than that 
worthy deserved, to be even thus severely no- 
ticed. 

Note 4, p. 178 — A. further allusion to the 
nature of Fitzgerald's celebrity. 

Note 5, p. 178. — See the concluding chap- 
ter of Dun Quixote. 

Note 6, p. 178.— See Juvenal, Sat. i. for 
the parallel passage— 

" Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubique 
occurras peri tune parcere chartae." 

Note 7, p. 179. — See the same— 
" Cur tamen hoc libeat potius decurrere 

campo 
Per quem magnos equos Auruncae flexit 

alumnus: 
Si vavat, et placidi rationem admittitis, 

sedam."— 

Note 8, p. 179. — .It was whilst Lord 
Byron was engaged in the composition of 
this incomparable satire that he turned his 
attention especially to the works of Pope, the 
most polished writer of the English Augus- 
tan age ; and hence our author's subsequent 
admiration for this, his tacit master. 

Note 9, p. 179. — An allusion to one Stott, 
of Morning Post celebrity. His literary de- 
signation, however, was generally known as 
that of Hafia 

Notb 10, p. 179.—" When Lord 3yron 
vrote his famous satire, I had my share ot 
flagellation among my letters. My crime 



was having written a poem for a thousand 
pounds : which was no otherwise true than 
that I sold the copyright for that sum."— Sib 
Walter Scott. 

Note 11, p. 179. — It is well known that 
Lord Byron had a delicate and scrupulous 
objection to realise money by his works. Not- 
withstanding the original scantiness of his 
fortune, which had, moreover, been very ma- 
terially lessened by the want of providence, 
which was by no means extraordinary in a 
person of his inclinations and habits, and 
by the wanton extravagance which attended 
one portion of his career, and which was 
more especially attributable to Lady Byron, 
he long sternly refused the handsome remit- 
tances of Mr. Murray ; and it was not with- 
out great difficulty that he was induced to 
accept the sum of one thousand guineas 
awarded as the price of the " Siege of Co- 
rinth." Circumstances afterwards compelled 
hi in to accept various sums from his pub- 
lisher which, great as they may appear, have 
left an ample margin to Mr. Murray ; and 
although the gross amount paid by the latter 
was no less than ,£23,500, there can be no 
doubt but that he had very liberally re- 
warded his own share in the production of 
these works. 

Note 12, p. 180.— The poem, entitled 
" Thalaba," by Southey, is certainly of an 
exceptionable character. Lord Byron, who 
can never be said to have been too severe 
toward his contemporary, considering the gra- 
tuitous and unmeasured manner in which 
Southey assailed him, has withered this pru 
duction. 

Note 13, p. 180. — There is a slight in- 
congruity here, (see Southey's preface) 

Note 14, p. 180.— An allusion to a ballad 
of Southey's, bearing the facetious title of 
" The Old Woman of Berkley," which is re- 
markable for some of that author's quaint but 
meagre conceptions. 

Notb 15, p. 180. — An allusion to Gilford's 



NOTES. 



531 



parody on "Southeys Dactylics? which 
appeared in the Anti-Jacobin, especially re- 
ferring to the expression " God help thee."— 
" Ne'er talk of ears again! look at thy spell- 
ing book ; 
Dilworth and Dyche are both mad at thy 

quantities- 
Dactylics, call'st thou 'em? — 'God help thee,' 
silly one." 

Note 16, p. 180. — An allusion to the tenor 
of the preface to the works of that writer. 

Note 17, p. 180. — An allusion t<v some 
poems by Coleridge. 

Note 18, p. 180.— This line originally 
Btood thus :— 
"A fellow-feeling makes us wond 'rous kind." 

Note 19, p. 180. — Mr. Matthew Lewis, 
who was a member of the House of Commons 
at the time. 

Note 20, p. 180.— This contains an allu- 
sion to a passage in a piece, which appeared 
in " the Statesman," and which is attributed 
to Jekyll. It was addressed to Mr. Lewis. 

Note 21, p. 181. — See Lord Strangford's 
Translation of Camoens at page 127, and 
note ; also the criticism on this work, which 
appeared in the Edinburgh Review at the 
time of its publication. 

Note 22, p. 181. — An allusion to the quan 
tities of spurious poems, which have been 
thrust by his translators and commentators 
upon the shoulders of Camoens, and of which 
he was purely guiltless. 

Note 23, p. 181.—" The Triumph of Tem- 
per," and " the Triumph of Music," are 
amongst the poetical productions of Hayley. 

Note 24, p. 181. — An allusion to Grahame, 
the author of a wretched production entitled 
" Sabbath Walks," " Biblical Pictures," and 
of other similar stuff. Lord Byron had dig- 
nified him by the censure. His poems are 
far beneath it, and would probably have never 
been dreamt of but for the satire. At all 
events this precious writer richly deserved 
the lash. 

Note 25, p. 181. — Alluding in particular 
to two productions of Mr. Bowles, the '' Son- 
net to Oxford," and the " Stanzas on hearing 
ihe bells of Ostend. The last is truly a poe- 
tical subject. 

Note 26, p. 181. — An allusion to a pre- 
cious amatory episode. 

Note 27," p. 181. — Lord Byron latterly 
severely regretted the publication of English 



Bards and Scotch Reviewers, in which he 
was conscious that he had abandoned Inins'-ll 
to the utmost acrimony awakened by his 
censors, but it does not appear 'hat he ever 
regretted the figure which Bowles was mado 
to cut in that satire. 

Note 28, p. 181. — See Pope's Dunciad. 
Curll was a Bookseller. The sobriquet ol 
Lord Fanny will be in like manner explained. 

Note 29, p. 182. — An allusion to the em 
ployment of Mallet by Lord Bolingbroke, in 
the exemplary service of aspersing against 
the memory of Pope. 

Note 30, p. 182 — Dennis and Ralph, who 
figure in the " Dunciad " of Pope : — 

" Silence, ye wolves! while Ralph to Cynthii 

howls, 
Making night hideous; answer him, ye owls !** 

Note 31. p. 182. — An error, see the "An- 
tiquities of Greece" or " Lempriere's Classical 
Dictionary," under the head of Helicon. 

Note 32, p. 182. — An allusion to Messieurs 
Cottle, of whom Lord Byron says, that they 
were " once sellers of books they did not 
write, and now writers of books they do not 
sell." They signalized themselves by the 
production, of two Epic poems, as they were 
pleased to call them. 

Note 33, p. 182. — An allusion to the au- 
thor, of a species of didactic, respecting 
" Richmond Hill," " Westminster Abbey," 
and other poems, and who crowned all by 
one of the most self-sufficient autobiographies 
that ever stamped a man for conceit. 

Note 34, p. 182. — An allusion to the man- 
ner in which the poems of Montgomery were 
received in England and in Scotland, in each 
of which he was very differently handled. 
Lord Byron does not treat him very harshly. 

Note 35, p. 182. — Mr. Crowe's Criticism 
on the " English Bards and Scotch Re- 
viewers," was so just, as far as literary acu- 
men was concerned, that it induced Lord 
Byron to alter many words in the original 
text, particularly referred to by the Critic. 

Note 36, p. 182. — The elevation which 
overlooks the Capital of Scotland. 

Note 37, p. 182. — Sydney Smith only re- 
tained the conduct of the Edinburgh Review 
for a few numbers. It was subsequently 
edited by Jeffrey, who has since been Lord 
Advocate of Scotland, and a Lord of the 
Session. 

Note 38, p. 182. — An allusion to the hos- 
tile meeting between Jeffrey aud Moore, an4 

<4 u O 



532 



NOTES. 



to the tattle which became current respecting 
it in the papers concerning the interference 

<*f the authorities, and the harmless manner 
in which the arms were found to have been 
loaded. 

Note 39, p. 183. — A bantering sally, in- 
volving the question of national rivalry. 

Notk 40, p. 183. — The sarcasm is too 
local to be of much interest now. Yet it is 
certainly well pointed at the virtuoso and an- 
tiquarian affectation of that nobleman, and 
was well understood by himself and by those 
who were acquainted with his pretensions 
and pursuits. 

Note 41, p. 183. — A writer who was oc- 
cupied especially with the study and transla- 
tion of the literature o' Iceland and Norway. 

Note 42, p. 183 —Sydney Smith. 

Note 43, p. 183. — An allusion to one of 
Hallam's criticisms. 

Note 44, p. 183. — A tutor at Eton. 

Note 45, p. 183. — An allusion to critical 
and dramatical works by that author. 

Note 46, p. 183. — Referring to the conse- 
quences of some of Brougham's articles in 
the Edinburgh Review. 

Note 47, p. 183. — Refer to the cover of 
that periodical. 

Note 48, p. 183. — Lord Henry Petty, one 
of the great wits of his day, since better 
known as Marquis of Lansdowne. 

Note 49, p. 183. — Alluding to some trans- 
lations by Lord Holland. 

Note 50, p. 183.— A remark touching her 
critical supremacy. 

Note 51,, p. 183. — See the play of Tekeli. 

Note 52, p. 183. — Adapting that author's 
prevailing phrases. 

Note 53, p. 184. — Kenny, whose dra- 
matical productions had secured him so high 
a reputation, and who it will be remembered 
died very suddenly on the eve of a benefit 
which had been very liberally got up in his be- 
half in the course of the present summer (1849). 

Note 54, p. 184. — Alluding to some tricks 
played by that gentleman during his manage- 
ment of Drury Lane. 

Note 55, p. 184. — The exceeding hilarity 
and joyous wit of Colrnaa rendered him very 
eminent as a boon companion. 

Note 56, p. 184. — Cumberland, whose 
works were so popular in their day. 

Note 57, p. 184. — Alluding to the success 
of a pantomime, by Dibdin. 

Note 58, p. 184. — The occupation of that 
CH-tsou about Drury Lane Theatre. 



Notb 59, p. 184— An allusion to SkeC 

fington's dramatical works. 

Note 60, p. 184— Both well known upon 
the boards. 

Note 61, p. 184. — The place and not tim 
person. 

Note 62, p. 181. — The relations of Petro 
nius with the Emperor Nero are well known. 

Note 63, p. 185. — Mr. Andrews, a powder 
manufacturer and small writer in his way. 

Note 64, p. 185. — An allusion to a pam 
phlet by the Earl of Carlisle on the condition 
of the English drama. 

Note 65, p. 185- — A parody ridiculing a 
poem entitled "Elijah's Mantle." 

Notf 66, p. 185 — An allusion to some 
trifling works. 

Note 67, p. 186. — Assumed names cur- 
rently known at the time as attached to the 
fragmentary poetry of the papers. 

Note 68, p. 186. — The same to whom 
Lord Byron has addressed a small piece. 
(See Occasional Pieces). Joseph Blackett 
was a shoemaker. 

Note 69, p. 186. — Indicating the same. 

Note 70, p. 186. — A sarcasm on the os- 
tentatious patronage of Mr. Lofft. 

Note 71, p. 186. — Alluding to a piece by 
Bloomfield. 

Note 72, p 186.— Refer to the " Recol- 
lections of a Weaver." 

Note 73, p. 186.— Thomas Campbell and 
Samuel Rogers, whose reputation was long 
since established by the " Pleasures of Hope" 
of the one, and the " Pleasures of Memory" 
of the other. 

Note 74, p. 186. — Gifford, well known as 
the author of the Baviad and Majviad. 

Note 75, p. 186. — The author of some 
translations and original works. The name 
of Sotheby is so little heard of now, that the 
satirical censure of Lord Byron seems te 
have been confirmed by public opinion. 

Note 76, p. 186. — Macneil's poems haft 
an astonishing run in their turn. 

Note 77, p. 186 — An allusion to an an- 
nouncement of Gilford's. 

Note 78, p. 186. — The melancholy death 
and the merits of Kirke White are well known. 

Note 79, p. 187. — Shee, who from his lit 
tie productions of that period, has since at, 
tained great eminence. 

Note 80, p. 187. — Mr. Wright, whose 
poem entitled "Hoi® Ionic*" is certainly 
distinguished by great merit. 

BioT& 81, p. 187.— Bland and lierivakfc 



NOTES. 



533 



Note 82, p. 187. — Lamb and Lloyd. 

Note 83. p. 188. — Ylluding to" the Ship- 
wreck of St. Paul," by Hoare. 

Note 84, p. 188.— Alluding to " Exodns," 
by Hoyle. 

Note 85, p. 188. — See the preface to 
* Exodns," (note 84.) The Book of Play by 
another Hoyle is of more established repu- 
tation. 

Note 86, p. 18S. — A sarcastic adaptation 
oi the passage in Gibbon's " Decline and Fall 
»f the Roman Empire" vol. ii. p. 83. " Into 
Cambridgeshire the Emperor Probus trans- 
ported a considerable body of Vandals." 

Note 87, p. 188. — A writer whose first 
pioduction, a translation, was worthy of the 
admiration which it met. 

Note 88, p. 183.— Thus written. 

Note 89, p 188.— A poem entitled the 
" Aboriginal Britons. " 



Notr 90, p. 188. — Alluding to a cansti« 
remark respecting the Duke of Portland 

Note 91, p. 188 —Georgia. 

Note 92, p. 188.— Sir John Carr was no. 
torious for his love of gossip. 

Note 93, p. 188. — A sarcasm on the eager 
ne«N of Lord Elgin, to attribute all his pil- 
fered marbles to the hand of Phidias. 

Note 94, p. 188. — " Clastic" was the 
term used in the original text ; it was not 
until several editions had been printed, that 
the word " rapid " was substituted. 

Note 95, p. 188.— An allusion to Gell's 
researches on the site of ancient Troy, and 
to his work on the subject. 

Note 96, p. 189.— In after years, Lord 
Byron felt and expressed considerable re- 
gret that this poem should ever have seen 
the day. 



azotes to f^ebrcfo JWelotrfes. 



Note l,p. 190.— Thb author was never 
over-proud of these productions. 

Note 2, p. 190.— The measure of Jewish 
Minstrelsy was always arb trary. 

Note 3, p. 190. — Lines wggested by the 
dress of a lady, who was present at an en- 
tertainment in which Lord Byron took part. 

Note 4, p. 194. — Mariamne, the wife of 
Herod the Great, falling under the suspicion 
of infidelity, was put to death, by his order. 
She was a woman of uuri vailed beauty, and 



a haughty spirit : unhappy in being the obj ect 
of passionate attachment which bordered on 
frenzy, to a man who had more or less con- 
cern in the murder of her grandfather, father, 
brother, and uncle, and who had twice com- 
manded her death, in case of his own. Ever 
after, Herod was haunted by the image of 
the murdered Mariamne, until disorder of the 
mind brought on disorder of body, which led 
to temporary derangement. — Milman. 



Notes to <&tiz to jiapokon. 



Note 1, p. 197.— 
' Prjdue^ the urn that Hannibal contains, 
And weigh th°. mighty dust which yet remains. 
And is this all!" 

I know not that this was ever done in the old 
world: at least, with regard to Hannibal: 
but, in the statistical account of Scotland. I 
find that Sir John Paterson had the curiosity 
to collect, and weigh, the ashes of a person 
discovered, a few years since, in the parish 
of Eccles ; which he was happily enabled to 
do with crreat facility, as "the inside of the 
colliii was smooth, and the whole body visible." 



Wonderful to relate, he found the whole diu 
not exceed in weight one ounce and a half 
And is this all! Alas! the quot libras itself 
is a satirical exaggeration. — Gifford. 

Note 2, p. 197. — See Cassiodorus respecting 
the yreat battle fought by Attila on the Cata- 
lan ru-an plain. 

Note 3, p. 107.— Sylla. 

Note 4, p. 198.— Count Neipperg, who after- 
wards married Maria Louisa. 

Note 5, p. 193.— The well-known anecdote 
of Dionysius the younger. 



534 



NOTES. 



Notk 6, p. 198. — Allusion to the Iron Notk 8, p. 198. — A story of thij kind ia 

Cage, in which Bujazet 11, was paraded about told of Napoleon: the lines were perhaps sug- 

by Timour the Tartar. gested by those of Shakspeare : 

Not/2 7, p. 198. — Prometheus, (see Lem- " The very fiend's arch mock, — 

prie-t'i Class. Vict.) " To hp a wanton, and suppose her 



Notes to ®&e Curse of Jttinerba. 



* Note 1, p. 199- — This satire was too 
severely personal for even Lord Byron to 
suffer its full dissemination at the period when 
it was written. The apologists of Lord Elgin, 
however, sadly fail in making out their case 
when they urge in his delence that the col- 
lection of Athenian marbles " has been of the 
most essential advantage to the hue arts of 
our own country." 

Note 2, p. 199. — See note ante; and an 
account of the death of Socrates. 

Note 3, p. 199. — See note ante (to the 
M Giaour.") 

Note 4, p. 199.— See note ante (to the 
word "kiosk.") 

Note 5, p 200. — On the plaster wall, on 
the west side of the chapel, these words have 
been very deeply cut : — 

Quod non fecerunt Goti, 

HOC FECERUNT ScOTI. 

The mortar wall, yet fresh when we saw it, 
supplying the place of the statue now in 
Lord Elgin's collection, serves as a comment 
on this text. This eulogy of the Goths al- 
ludes to an unfounded story of a Greek his- 
torian, who relates that Alaric, either terrified 
by two phantoms, one of Minerva herself, 
the other of Achilles, terrible as when he 
strode towards the walls of Troy to his friends, 
or struck with a reverential respect, had, 



spared the treasures, ornaments, and people 
of the venerable city. — Hokhouse. 

Note 6, p. 200. — Alluding to Athens gene- 
rally. 

Note 7, p. 200. — Alluding to the notices o 
that nobleman which have been questionab^ 
carved in the Parthenon, &c. 

Note 8, p. 2U0. — A citation. The term u 
merely adopted. 

Note 9, p. 201.— Th fc grant of £35,000, lot 
tbe purchase oi Lord Elgin's collection. 

Note 10, p. 201. — Alluding to a remark of 
West's on the subject. 

Note 11, p. 201.— -A term aptly applied to 
the residence oi Lovd Elgin. 

'Note 12, p. 201. — That the Elgin marbles 
will contribute to the improvement of art in 
England, cannot be doubted. They must 
certainly open the eyes of British artists, and 
prove that the true and only road to simpli- 
city and beauty is the study of nature.— 
H." W. Williams. 

Note 13, p. 201. — An allusion to Copen. 
hagen 

Note 14, p. 201. — See the lines of Pope : 

" Blest paper credit ! last and best supply, 
That lends corruption lighter wings to fly !" 

Note 15, p. 201. — An allusion to the trade 
in bullion and coin, so actively carried on 
from the south-eastern ports during the war. 



Notes to Ww Bream. 



Note 1, p. 203. — This most melancholy but 
beautiful poem in which the most cankering 
borrow of Lord Byron is imbosomed was hist 
entitled " The Destiny." 

Note 2, p. 2U4. — An attachment which 
Lurd Byrou concealed. 



Note 3, 204. — A very true and pain I'm re- 
presentation of the actual celebration of his 
own marriage. It argrees, in many circum- 
stances, with Lord Byron's prose account oi 
the wedding in his Memoranda. 

Note 4, j>. 205/ — Mithridatea of Pontu*. 



NOTES. 



535 



'Notts to W)t Lament of ^asso. 



KyrB 1, p. 206.— This poem was suggested 
By a very brief visit to the place of confine- 
ment of the greatest of Italian poets, at Ferrar. 

Note 2, p. 20o.— In the Hospital of St.. 
Anna, at Ferrara, they show a cell, over the 
door of which is the following inscription : — 
1 llispettate, O posteri, la celebrita di questa 
stanza, dove Torquato Tasso, infermo piu. di 
tristezza che delirio, ditenuto dimoro anni 
vii. mesi ii., scrisse verse e prose, e fu rimesso 
in liberta ad instanza della citta di Bergamo, 
nel giorno vi. Luglio, 1586." — The dungeon 
is below the ground floor of the hospital, and 
the light penetrates through its grated win- 
dow from a small yard, which seems to have 
been common to other cells. It is nine paces 
long, between five and six wide, and about 
seven feet high. The bedstead, so they tell, 
has been carried off piecemeal, and the door 
half cut away, by the devotion of those whom 
" the verse and prose," of the prisoner have 
brought to Ferrara. The poet was confined 
in this room from the middle of March, 1579, 
to December, 1580, when he was removed to 
a contiguous apartment much larger, in which, 
to use his own expressions, he could " philo- 
sophise and walk about." — Hobhouse. 

Note 3, p. 207. — For nearly the first year 
of his confinement Tasso endured all the hor- 
rors of a solitary cell, and was under the care 
of a gaoler, whose chief virtue, although he 
was a poet and a man of letters, was a cruel 
obedience to the commands of his prince. 
His name was Agostino Mosti Tasso says 
of him, in a letter to his sister, " ed usa 
meco ogni sorte di rigore ed inumanita." — 
Hobhouse. 

Note 4, p. 207. — This fearful picture is 
flnelv contrasted with that which Tasso draws 



of himself in youth, when nature and medi- 
tation were forming his wild, romantic, anil 
impassioned genius. Indeed, the great ex- 
cellence of the "Lament" consists m the 
ebbing and flowing of the noble prisoner's 
soul ; — his feelings often come suddenly from 
afar off, — sometimes gentle airs are breathing, 
and then all at once arise the storms and 
tempest, — the gloom, though black as night 
while it endures, gives way to frequent bursts 
of radiance, — and when the wild strain is 
closed, our pity and commiseration are blend 
ed with a sustaining and elevating sense oi 
the grandeur and majesty of his character. — 
Wilson. 

Note 5, p. 207. — Not long after his im- 
prisonment, Tasso appealed to the mercy 
of Alfonso, in a canzone of great beauty, 
couched in terms so respectful and pathetic 
as must have moved, it might be thought, 
the severest bosom to relent. The heart of 
Alfonso was, however, impregnable to the 
appeal; and Tasso, in another ode to the 
princesses, whose pity he invoked in the narns 
of their own mother, who had herself known, 
if not the like horrors, the like solitude of 
imprisonment, and bitterness of soul, made a 
similar appeal. — Life of Tatso, vol. ii. 
p. 408. 

Note 6, p. 207. — The historical allusion 
itself is open to question. 

Note 7, p. 207. — Tasso's profound and 
unconquerable love for Leonora, sustaining 
itself without hope throughout years of dark- 
ness and solitude, breathes a moral dignity 
over all his sentiments, and we feel the 
strength and power of his noble spirit in the 
un-upbraiding devotedness of his passion. — 
Wilson. 



3?otes to tfic Ftston of gjttbgment 



Note 1, p. 309. — A very severe satire on 
the poem under the same title, by Southey. 

Note 2, p. 209.— Alluding to" the refusal 
of an injunction to protect the copyright of 
" Wat Tyler." 

Note 3, p. 209.— See Parliamentary De- 
bates, March 14th. 1817 Southey's Reply. 



Note 4, p. 209. — The well-known inscrip- 
tion by Southey, in which he celebrates tho 
aspirations of Martin the regicide, who was 
imprisoned for thirty years in Chepstow 
Castle. 

Note 5, p. 209. — An imitation of the lines 
published in the " Anti- Jacobin." 



536 



NOTES. 



Note 6, p. 210. — Mr. Walter Savage 
Landor, well known in the literary world 
for his classical and critical acumen, was 
amongst the earlier acquaintances of Southey. 

Note 7, p. 211. — The period of the death 
of George III. was marked by the general 
revolts in the southern part of Europe. 

Note 8, p. 212 — An allusion to the fate 
of Louis XVI. 

Note 9, p. 213.— Suggested by the de- 
scription of the remarkable Aurora Borealis, 
witnessed by Captain Parry in his voyage, 
(1819-20.) 

Note 10, p. 213. — For a notice of Johanna 
Southcote, see the Quarterly Review, vol. 
xxiv. p. 496. 

Note 11, p. 214. — " No saint in the course 
of his religious warfare was more sensible of 
the unhappy failure of pious resolves than 
Dr. Johnson: he said one day, talking to an 
acquaintance on this subject, ' Sir, hell is 
paved with good intentions.'" — Boswell, 
vol. v. p. 305, ed. 1835. 

Note 12, p. 215.— Alluding to the obstinate 
opposition offered to all conciliatory mea- 
sures towards the Roman Catholics, by 
George III. 

Note 13, p. 216.— The Lord Chamberlain's 
Badge. 

Note 14, p. 216.— Alluding to an ex- 
pression used by Horace Walpole. 

Note 15, p. 217.— Mr. Wilkes made him- 
self sufficiently notorious in his own time. 

Note 16, p. 218. — The supposititious au- 
thors of the letters of Junius. 

Note 17, p. 218.— Alluding to a work pro- 
fessedly elucidating the great mystery of the 
reign of Louis XIV, " the man with the Iron 
Mask ;" and to another work on the same 



subject by Lord Dover. It should be re. 
marked that these elucidations do not seem to 
have done mnch towards setting the question 
at rest. It is as much a matter of doubt 
now as ever. 

Note 18, p. 218. — That the work entitled 
" The identity of Junius with a distinguished 
Living Character established" proves Sir Philip 
Francis to be Junius, we will not affirm ; but 
this we can safely assert, that it accumulates 
such a mass of circumstantial evidence as 
renders it extremely difficult to believe he is 
not, and that, if so many coincidences shall 
be found to have misled us in this case, our 
faith in all conclusions drawn from proofs of a 
similar kind may henceforth be shaken. — 
Mackintosh. 

Note 19, p. 219.— The motto of Junius. 

Note 20, p. 212.— The retreat of Southey 
in the North of England. 

Note 21, p. 219.— See the lines of Horace: 
— " Mediocribus esse poetis 
Non Di, non homines, non concessere co- 
lumn®." 

Note 22, p. 219.— The well known habit 
of George III. of reiterating his words, which 
has been admirably caricatured by Peter 
Pindar. 

Note 23, p. 219. — Pye was the Laureate 
whom Southey succeeded* 

Note 24, p. 220.— Refer to the life of Kirke 
White, attached to his poems. 

Note 25, p. 220. — Alluding to a shrewd re- 
m ark on the absurdities of the Ptolomean 
system. 

Note 26. p. 220. — See the Antiquary ,vol. i. 
p. 225. 

Note 27, p. 221 — It is known that a dead 
body floats at its decomposition. 



Notes to Domestic ^tos. 



Note 1 p. 222. — See Moore's account o^ 
these pieces. 

Note 2, p. 223. — Suggested by actual inci- 
dents. 

Note 3, p. 224. — Written just before his 
last departure from England, his sisterhaviuf 
been attending upon him. 

Note 4, p 224. — There is a life in 



which bespeaks the uneasy state of Lord By- 
ron whilst at the Diodati (Coiigny). 

Note 5, p. 225. — An allusion to the re- 
markable casualties which always bel'el Ad- 
miral Byron. 

Note 6, p. 226 — The water which adorn? 
"rounds at ^ewstead. 

7, p. 226. — See note ante. 



DON JUAN. 



537 



Notes to (Occasional pieces. 



Note G, p 832. — Alluding to a boyish in- 
scription at Harrow. 

Note 8, p. 234.— The skull of which this 
drinking cup was made had been dug up in 
the grounds at Newstead. 

Note 9, p. 235. — Suggested by the first 
Bight of the child of Mrs. Musters. 

Note 10, p. 235. — The monument exists to 
this day. The inscription runs thus— 
" Near this spot 
Are deposited the Remains of one 
Who possessed Beauty without Vanity, 
Strength without Insolence, 
Courage without Ferocity, 
And all the Virtues of Man without his Vices. 
This Praise, which would be unmeaning 
Flattery 
If inscribed over human ashes, 
Is but a just tribute to the memory of 
BOATSWAIN, a Dog. 
Who was born at Newfoundland, Mav, 1803, 
And died at Newstead Abbey, Nov. 18, 1808." 
Note 12, p. f>39.— In Albania. 
Note 13, p. 241.— The Greek scholar will 
readily construe this phrase. The Roman in 
manv instances differs but little from classical 
Greek. 

Note 14, p. 241. — Tender messages are in- 
variably transferred by symbols in the East, 
Tor the women are jealously precluded from 
the knowledge of ealigraphy. 

Note 15, p. 241. — Constantinople. 

Note 17, p. 242. — This is a very accurate 
translation of the fine song of Riga, one of 
the heroes of Grecian independence. 

Note 18.. p. 242. — See note ante. 

Note 19, p. 242. — Refer to an account of the 
Career of Riga. He was a native of Thessaly. 

Note 20, p. 242. — Adopted from a popular 
song amongst the Greek women. 

Note 21, p. 242. — National songs and popu- 
W work* of amusement throw no ismall light 



on the manners of a people : they are mate- 
rials which most travellers have within theil 
reach, but which they almost always disdain 
to collect. — George Ellis. 

Note 23, p. 248. — An allusion to an anec- 
dote concerning the Princess Charlotte. 

Note 24, p. 219. — The lines in the monu- 
ment of Thompson. 

Note 25, p. 249. — For the re-opening oi 
Drury Lane Theatre. 

Note 26, p, 249. — An allusion to the aspect 
of the lire, from Westminster Bridge. 

Note 29, p. 250. — " The sequel of a tem- 
porary liason, formed by Lord Byron during 
his gay but brief career in London, occasioned 
the composition of this Impromptu. On the 
cessation of the connection, the fair one, ac- 
tuated by jealousy, called one morning at her 
quondam lover's apartments. His lordship 
was from home ; but rinding 'Vatfiek' on the 
table, the lady wrote in the first page of the 
volume the words ' Remember me !' Byron 
immediately wrote under the ominous warning 
these two stanzas " — Medwin. 

Note 30. p. 253. — He was killed in Ame- 
rica in 1814. 

Note 31, p. 258. — Presented to Power and 
published with music. 

Note 32, p. 259.— See Rev. vii., 6, 10, 11 

Note 33, p. 259. — An allusion to the re 
ported desecration of the body of Murat after 
its interment. 

Note 34, p. 260. — The scene which accom 
panied the last sentence (for such it was) in 
Napoleon. 

Note 35, p. 260. — Instances of extraordi- 
nary heroism related of the contending armiea 
in the Netherlands- 
Note 36, p. 261.— The French national 
colours. 

Note 37, p. 264. — Genera, Ferney Copet, 
Lausanne. 



Notes to C{)tltfe f^avoto. 



Notb 1, p. 277— Beattie. 

Note 2, p. 2? 7. — Lady Charlotte Harley. 



Note 3, p. 278.—" Peri," a snp«m«tur«i 
and perfect being. 



538 



NOTES. 



Note 4, p. 278. — The gazelle is remarkable 
for the beauty oi' its eye, and the comparison 
is held as highly complimentary in the Land 
of Hyperbole — the East. 

Note 5, p. 278. — Castri is a small village 
which is situated about the locality of the an- 
cient Delphi. 

Note 6, p. 279. — An allusion to the inclina- 
tion which Byron has more than once recorded 
of visiting India. 

Note 7, p. 280. — His name was Rushton* 
he was the son of a tenant on the Author's 
estate. 

Note 8, p. 280. — He was sent back to En- 
gland owing to his fretting. 

Note 9, p. 280. — Fletcher remained in the 
constant service of Lord Byron until his death 
at Missolonghi. 

Note 10, p. 280. — Lisbon itself is not only 
far from an agreeable place, but it is always 
exceedingly loathsome and dirty; but Cintra 
the suburban retreat of the court, is perhaps, 
one of the most delicious spots in Europe. 

Note 11, p. 280. — The convent of " Nassa 
Senora de Pena." 

Note 12, p. 281 — An allusion to the un- 
punished assassinations which were daily per- 
petrated at Lisbon, and of which many 
Englishmen were the unprotected victims. 

Note 13, p. 281- — On this subject, see 
Napier's History cf the Peninsular War. 
Lord Byron's account is certainly not so ac- 
curate as it should have been : (thus seriously 
advanced.) 

Note 14, p. 282. — Her insanity was a matter 
of later date. 

Note 15, p. 283. — There is an eloquent 
account which will illustrate this passage in 
Gibbon's Decline and Fall. But the esca- 
pade of Count Julian's daughter is otherwise 
pretty generally known 

Note 16, p. 284 — A Moorish instrument 
with two strings. 

Note 17, p. 284. — An allusion to the bur- 
then of the Spanish popular songs. 

Note 18, p. 2S4. — The national cockade ; it 
was red. 

Note 19, p. 285. — An allusion to the ap- 
pearance of the mountain passes, which at 
that time everywhere furnished evidence of 
war. The batteries and their vonical piles of 
shot were met with on all hands. 

Note 20, p. 285. — The story of the heroine of 
Saragossa is well known. 

Note 21, p. 285. — These lines wore not pro 
perly a portion of the context 



Note 22, p. 286 — See last note. 

Note 23, p. 287.— See last notes. 

Note 24, p. 287. — The denizens of London 
will generally understand the allusion to " being 
sworn in at Highgate." 

Note 25, p. 287.— A method of vaulting, 
which forms part of the gymnastic exercises. 

Note 26, p. 288. — The picture is admirable, 
and all who have witnessed the scene till 
acknowledge that it is to the life. 

Note 27, p. 289. — An allusion to Solano, 
as governor of Cadiz. 

Note 28, p 289. — The memorable reply 
transmitted to the French Commander by the 
defender ot Saragossa. 

Note 29, p. 290. — See note ante. 

Note 30, p. 290. — A portion of the citadel 
was Diown up by a magazine, which took 
fire. 

Note 31, p. 291. — A classical allusion. 
Refer to the " Antiquities of Greece." 

Note 32, p. 291.— The ruin a of the temple 
of Jupiter. 

Note 33, p. 291.— Wrecked in the Grecian 
Archipelago. 

Note 34, p. 293.— "The identity of -the 
habitation assigned by poets to the nymph 
Calypso, has occasioned much discussion and 
variety of opinion. Some place it at Malta, 
and some at Goza." — Hoare's Classical 
Tour. 

Note 35, p. 294. — Lord Byron does him- 
self an injustice by the supposition. 

Note 36, p. 294.— See last note. 

Note 37, p. 294.— Ithaca of the ancients. 

Note 38, p. 294. — The modern name is 
Santa Maura — the ancient Leucadia, illus- 
trated by the supposed suicide of Sappho. 

Note 39, p. 295.— The Battle of Lepanto 
was one of the great actions which signalised 
the spreading power of the Turks. Cervantes 
served on the side of the Christian allies, 
and was crippled for life in this sanguinary 
contest. 

Note 40, p. 295. — An allusion to the re. 
tinne of Anthony before Actium. 

Note 41 , p. 295. — Nicopoiis is not very 
near Actium. 

Note 42, p. 295. — The locality is not as- 
certained. 

Note 43, p. 295.— The well known All 
Pacha. 

Note 44, p. 295 — The heroic defence ol 
Suli, against assailants six times as numerous, 
is here referred to. 

Note 45, p. 295. — Zitza, not very far fioa 



NOTES. 



539 



Vaniiia. There is a convent at this place, 
which is a mere village, and the site is re- 
markably beautiful. 

Note *46, p 296.— Monks. 
Note 47, p. 29(3. — There are evidences of 
volcanic action in the Chimariot Range. 

Note 48, p, 296. — Kalamas is the modern 
name of the more classic Acheron. 

Note 49, p. 296. — The mantle peculiar to 
the Albanian. 

Note 50, p. 296. — The ancitr.t Tomarus. 
Note 51, p. 296. — The Laos is no con- 
temptible stream when at its height, but its 
waters arc periodical. 

Note 52, p. 297. — " On our arrival at 
Tepaleen, we were lodged in the palace. 
During the night, we were disturbed by the 
perpetual carousal which seemed to be kept 
up in the gallery, and by the drum, and the 
voice of the ' Muezzin,' or chanter, calling 
the Turks to prayers from the minaret or 
the mosck attached to the palace." — Hob- 
house 

Note 53, p. 297. — " We were a little un- 
fortunate in the time we chose for travelling, 
for it was during the Ramazan, or Turkish 
Lent, which fell this year in October, and 
was hailed at the rising of the new moon, 
and on the evening of the eighth, by every 
demonstration of joy: but although, during 
this month, the strictest abstinence is ob- 
served in the daytime, yet with the setting 
of the sun the feasting commences." — Hob- 
house 

Note 54, p. 297. — Ali Pacha's assassina- 
tion gave the appearance of prophecy to the 
poetical rhapsody of the author. 

Note 55, p. 297. — The spoilers of wrecks, 
whose inhumanities were not uncommon in 
the extreme west of England. 

Note 56, p. 298. — An allusion to the lax 
observance of the Mohammedan restric- 
tions. 

Note 57, p. 298. — A soldier — this is a ge- 
neral expression in the Romaic dialect. 

Note 58, p. 298 — The description of a 
scene which actually took place, and which 
has been very graphically portrayed by 
Hobhouse. 

Note 59, p. 298.— -The Romaic term for 
drummer. 

Note 60, p. 299.— Taken from the French 
by assault. 

"Note 61, p. 299.— The epithet applied to 
the Russians. 

Notr 62. p. 299 -Infidel. 



Note 63, p. 299.— The symbols of the 

Pacini. 

Note 64, p. 299.— See note ante. 
N<ne 65, p. 299. — Swordsman, or S-vord- 
oearer. 

Note 66, p. 299. — There are yet trices of 
the ancient buildings on the site of Phylo, 
which overlooks Athens. 

Note 67, p. 299. — The Latin conquest and 
occupation. 

Note 68, p. 299.— The two Holy cities 
have been occupied by a sect which is be- 
coming numerous, called the Wahabees. 

Note 69, p. 300. — Although the snow but 
rarely lays in the plains, even in the depth of 
winter, it is always to be distinguished 
throughout the year on the summits of the 
most elevated mountains. 

Note 70, p. 300. — Mount Mendili, (the. 
ancient Pentelicus), which still retains the 
indelible mark of having supplied the ma- 
terial for the most beautiful structures of 
Athens. 

Note 71. p. 304. — A word especially used for 
technical description in Falconry ; it is there- 
fore not only applied with great beauty, but 
with as correct an accuracy. 

Note 72, p. 304.— Aleaeus's beautiful ode 
to Harmodius and Aristogiton. 

Note 73, p. 304. — An allusion to the great 
ball at Brussels. 

Note 74, p. 304. — The Duke of Bruns- 
wick, whose father had fallen at Jena. 
Note 75, p. 305. — Sir Evan Cameron. 
Note 76, p. 305. — The general term is ap- 
plied to the forest of Soignies, which at this 
time occupied the whole country between 
Brussels and Waterloo. 

Note 77, p. 305. — The spot which, even 
to this day, may be indicated by some ot 
the omniscient guides, who, according to their 
own accounts, must have been acquainted 
with every officer, and many private soldiers, 
who fought on that day, and with ail their 
doings. 

Note 78, p. 306. — An allusion to the fa- 
bulous fruit on the shores of the Lake As- 
phaltes. 

Not.; 79, p. 307.— Alluding to the old bal- 
lads. 

Note 80, p. 308. — Modern tourists are so 
verv numerous, that Drachenfels is now as 
well known as the Tower of London, and 
vou might gather a full description of it a* 
" Joe's." 

Note 81, p. 309. — Marceau'a monument 



540 



NOTES. 



Note 82, p. 309.— Ehrenbreitstein, (see 
Bote 80). 

Note 83, p. 309. — These memorials no 
longer exist in their pristine integrity, thanks 
tr the humiliation of the French soldiery. 

Note 84, p. 310. — The ancient Aventicum, 
^Capital of Roman Helvetia), now Aven- 
ches. 

Note 85, p. 310. — Aulus Caecina, and Julia 
Alpinula. 

Note 86, p. 310. — An allusion to the daz- 
zling brilliancy of the white heads of Mont 
Bianc and Mont Argentiere, even from Ge- 
neva, and to the magnificent effect of the re- 



flection which is constantly to be seen in th« 

calm lake. 

Note 87, p. 310. — Alluding to the remark 
ably deep and beautiful colour of the water. 

Note 88, p. 311. — Rousseau's passion for the 
Comtesse D' Houdilot. 

Note 89, p. 313.— The magnificence of a 
thunderstorm over the Lake of Geneva, can 
only be conceived by those who have seen it, 
or who can appreciate the vigorous descrip- 
tion of Lord Byron. 

Note 90, p. 314. — Voltaire and Gibbon. 

Note 91, p. 315. — Alluding to a syllogism 
of La RochefoucaulL 



Notes to Bon gjuau. 



Note 1, p. 316. — There can have been 
very little reason in the supposition of this 
dedication. It as certainly deserves insertion 
as any stanzas in the poems. 

Note 2, p. 317. — The colours (blue and 
buff) adopted by the Whigs, and, in con- 
formity, by the Edinburgh Review. 

Note 3, p. 317. — The Emperor Julian. 

Note 4, p. 318. — Don Juan is a very pre 
vailing hero of Plays and Romances, and 
always in the character of a reckless libertine. 

Note 5, p, 318. — The same GeneralVernon, 
whose capture of Porto-Bello, " with six ships 
fjily," was commemorated by a medal to this 
effect. 

Note 6, p. 318.— The hero (.') of the con- 
vention of Closter Seven. 

Note 7, p. 318. — Wolfe, who conquered, 
and fell at Quebec. 

N-te 8, p. 318. — Lord Hawke, the most 
successful admiral of his time. 

Note 9, p. 318.— The Duke of Brunswick, 
celebrated for his military successes ; Minden 
amongst others. 

Note 10, p. 318.— -The son of the Duke of 
Rutland, who achieved some military repu- 
tation. 

Note 11, p. 318. — A general and author, 
who was not without distinction in both 
■rapacities'. 

Note 12. p. 318.— Son of Lord Albemarle. 
He held high naval command, but was not 
very successful. 

Note 13, p. 318 — Lord Howe, of glorious 



memory amongst British seamen, for having 
achieved the most empty victory that ever 
was laughed at by a vanquished enemy. 

Note 14, p. 318. — Barnave, well known for 
his zeal in the Revolution of 1789. 

Note 15, p. 318. — Brissot de Varville, who 
was similarly distinguished. 

Note 16, p. 318. — Condorcet, an able wri- 
ter, and also amongst the partisans of the 
new era. 

Note 17, p 318. — Mirabeau, the most im- 
petuous and eloquent inciter of the Revolu- 
tion. 

Note 18, p. 318. — Petion,also actively en- 
gaged in that fearful outbreak. 

Note 19, p. 318. — Jean Baptiste, (Ana- 
charsis Clootz,) see former notes. 

Note 20, p. 318. — Danton, se<^ former notes. 
Note 21, p. 318. — One of those who were 
signalized in the greatest atrocities of the 
Revolution. 

Note 22, p. 318.— The survivor of all the 
worthies here mentioned. 

Note 23, p. 318. — Joubert whose military 
career has established him as no inferior sol- 
dier or commander. 

Note 24. p 318. — Hoche, who commanded 
the fruitless expedition destined for the Coast 
of Ireland, and afterwards the army of the 
Sambre and Meuse. 

Note 25, p. 318. — Marceau, whose first 
distinguishing service was in La Vendee ; 
see note ante. 

Note 26, p. 318. — Lunues, who figured is 



NOTES. 



541 



the military annals of France before and 
under Napoleon, 

Note 27, p. 318. — Desaix, already distin- 
guished at Malta and in Egypt, was killed at 
Marengo ; a monument has been erected to 
him at the Hospice St. Bernard. 

Note 28, p. 318. — Signalized by many ser- 
vices in the French ranks, but afterwards 
engaged with the allies. 

Note 29, p. 318.— Alluding to the prevail- 
ing beauty, symmetry, and elegant attire of 
the women of Seville 

Note 30, p. 319. — An allusion to Professor 
Feinagle, (a German.) 

Note 31, p. 319. — Alluding to the death 
of Lady Romilly and the suicide of Sir 
Samuel. 

Note 32, p. 326.— Ovid's Art of Love, b. ii. 
Note 33, p. 326.— See Gertrude of Wy- 
oming, part iii. stanza 1. 

Note 34, p. 326. — Almsgava(Boscan,) who 
was the introducer of Italian versification in 
Spain. 

Note 35, p. 326. — Garcilassa de la Vega, 
signalized by his military services, as well as 
by his literary productions. 

Note 36, p. 331. — " Cortego," synonymous 
with " Conaliero Servante." 

Note 37, p. 331. — A piece of irony! Donna 
Julia is here made to suggest the contrary to 
her assertion. 

Note 38, p. 336.— Suggested by one of the 
author's own seals. 

Note 39, p. 338. — The legend of Bacon's 
Brazen Head. 

Note 40, p. 338. — This portion was com- 
pleted in little more than a month. 

Note 41, p. 339. — The particular veils then 
Used. 

N )te 42, p. 340.— See Dr. Granville's and 
Dr. Kitchener's Recipes. 

Note 43, p. 352. — An allusion to " the 
Narrative of the Honourable John Byron, 
(Commodore in a late expedition round the 
world,) &c. &c. 

Note 44, p. 352. — Dr. Franklin's Essay 
jn the Economy of Early Rising. 

Note 45, p. 352. — The plan of going to 
oed early, and rising betimes, has been called 
the golden rule for the attainment of health 
and long life. It is sanctioned by various 
proverbial expressions ; and when old people 
have been examined, regarding the causes of 
their long life, they uniformly agreed in one 
particular, — that they went to bed early, and 
cose early. — Siu John Sinclair. 



Note 46, p. 352.— The name of the Red Sea 
attributed by Bruce to the vast shoals of coral 
which existed along the bottom. 

Note 47, p. 360. — There was an interval in 
the progress of " Don Juan," owing to the 
abuse which had been heaped upon the por- 
tions which first appeared. 

Note 48, p. 360.— Translated from a dictum 
of Montaigne, the French philosopher. 
m Note 49, p. 360.— There is a similar allu- 
sion in Shakspeare. 

Note 60, p. 360.— The term applied by 
Dante to his wife in the " Divina Comedia" — 
" la fiera moglie." 

Note 51, p. 360, — An allusion to the flight 
of Milton's first wife. 

Note 62, p. 361. — The luckless marriages 
of great poets appear to prevail. Take the 
examples of Dante, Milton and Dryden; 
many others might be appended to the melan- 
choly list. 

Note 53, p. 362.— "This dance is still 
performed by young men armed cap-a-pie, 
who execute, to the sound of instruments, all 
the proper movements of attack and defence." 
— Dr. E. Clarke. 

Note 54, p. 362. — " Their manner of danc- 
ing is certainly the same that Diana is sung 
to have danced on the banks of Eurotas. 
The great lady still leads the dance, and is 
followed by a troop of young girls, who imi- 
tate her steps, and if she sings, make up the 
chorus. The tunes are extremely gay and 
lively, yet with something in them wonderfully 
soft. The steps are varied according to the 
pleasure of her that leads the dance, but 
always in exact time, and infinitely more 
agreeable than any of our dances." — Lady 
M. W. Montagu. 

Note 55, p. 366.— The badge of Royalty 
amongst the women. 

Note 66, p. 366. — Lord Byron somewhere 
cites instances in corroboration of his de- 
scription. 

Note 57, p. 367. — Alluding to a preparation 
with which the eyelids of the women are dyed. 
Note 58, p. 368 —Homer. 
Note 69, p. 368. — Anacreon. 
Note 60, p. 372. — Alluding to the ancient 
fable concerning Achilles. 

Note 61 p. 3 3 — Refer to the account 
given by Herodoti s. 

Note 62, p. 383. -See Tournefort's de- 
scription of the Slave Market, <fcc. 

Note 62*. p. 38 V — Correctly related, sea 
Thosntcn'b Turke* vol. ii. p. 289 



542 



NOTES. 



Note 63, p. 383. — The comparison is greatly 
In favour of the Bosphorus. 

Note 64, p. 383. — A favourite resort on the 
Asiatic side of the strait. 

Note 65, p. 385. — In Bulgaria on the 
Danube. 

Njte 66, p. 386.— See De Pouqueville's 
account, although in general no great reliance 
is to be placed upon him. 

Note 67, p. 386.— A " zecchino " (Turkish 
money) is a gold coin — a " para," copper. 

Note 68, p. 386. — Alluding to an incident 
which came immediately under Lord Byron's 
observation. 

Note69,p.387 — The boats atConstantinople. 

Note 70, p. 387.— Alluding to the tradi- 
tional fate of St. Bartholomew. 

Note 71, p. 388. — An allusion to the pre- 
valence of dram-drinking amongst the Turks. 

Note 72, p. 388.— Described from actual 
observation. 

Note 73, p. 392. — Adapting a piece of 
technical and oratorical phraseology. 

Note 74, p. 392. — See note ante. 

Note 75, p. 393 — The idea that pure de 
scent is traceable in the hands. 

Note 76, p. 398.— The state prison of Con- 
stantinople, in which the Porte shuts up the 
ministers of hostile powers who are dilatory 
in taking their departure, under pretence of 
protecting them from the insults of the mob. 
—Hope. 

Note 77, p. 398. — Allusion to the dictum 
of the daughter of Achmet III. 

Note 78, p. 399. — Odessa is a very inter 
esting place ; and being the seat of govern 
ment, and the only quarantine allowed except 
Caffa and Taganrog, is, though of very recent 
erection, already wealthy and flourishing. Too 
much praise cannot be given to the Duke of 
Richelieu, to whose administration, not to 
any natural advantages, this town owes its 
prosperity. — Bishop Heber. 

Note, 79, p. 399. — Alluding to the suicide 
of Lord Londonderry (Castlereagh), 

Note 80, p. 399. — There is a bitter truth 
in this passage. 

Note 81, p. 399. — A tribute of deserved 
esteem was paid to Canning in his exception 
from the category. 

Note 82, p. 400. — Bishop Warbur ton's well- 
known definition of orthodoxy. 

Note 83, p. 400.— See Julius Caesar (SLak- 
pere) act. iv. sc. iii. 

Note 84, p. 400. — A fanatical sectarian, ad- 
mired in Germany. 



Note 85, p. 401. — Saracen's Head at Ware; 

Note 86, p. 401.— "The blessed Francis, 
being strongly solicited one day by the emo- 
tions of ihe flesh, pulled off his clothes and 
scourged himself soundly ; being after this in- 
flamed with a wonderful fervour of mind ha 
plunged his naked body into a great heap oi 
snow. The devil, being overcome, retired 
immediately, and the holy man returned vic- 
torious into his cell." — See Butler's Lives 
of the Saints. 

Note 87, p. 402. — A satire on the fulsome- 
ness of the partisans of Queen Charlotte. 

Note SS, p. 402. — Alluding to a passage oi 
Suetonius respecting Caligula. 

Note 89, p. 403. — The women of the Harem. 

Note 90, p. 403. — Cantimir, known by his 
" History of the Ottoman Empire." 

Note 91, p. 403.—" Memoirs of the Turkish 
Empire." 

Note 92, p. 403. — " It is in the adjacent 
climates of Georgia, MingreUa, and Circassia, 
that nature has placed, at least to our eyes 
the model of beauty, in the shape of the limbs, 
the colour of the skin, the symmetry of the 
features, and the expression of the counte- 
nance : the men are formed for action, the 
women for love." — Gibbon. 

Note 93, p. 403. — The grand Signior. 

Note 94, p. 404. — The name, of one of the 
girls at the house which Lord Byron occupied 
at Athens. 

Note 95, p. 404. — See Morier's descrip- 
tion of a Georgian model beauty. 

Note 96, p. 405. — A mixed metal. 

Note 97, p. 407. — Quizzing, the language 
of one of Queen Charlotte's counsel. 

Note 98, p. 412. — Casemate is a work 
made under the rampart, like a cellar or cave, 
with loopholes to place guns in it, and is 
bomb-proof. — Milit. Diet. 

Note 99, p. 412. — When the breastwork 
of a battery is only of such height that the 
guns may fire over it without being obliged to 
make embrasures, the guns are said to fire in 
barbet. — Ibid. 

Note 100, p. 414. — See note ante. The 
word means "maniac." 

Note 101. p. 416. — On historical record. 

Note 102, p. 420. — The Moslem battle-cry. 

Note 103, p. 421 — An allusion to the mis- 
nomers which appear in the Gazettes. 

Note 104, p. 422. — Un exaggerated. 

Note 105, p. 422. — The well-known pr* 
verb indigenous to Portugal, that 

" Hell is paved with good intentions.* 



NOTES. 



543 



Note 106, p. 423.— Alluding to the alleged 
discovery of the ii.se of powder. 

Note 107, p. 421. — Talus, the slope or in- 
clination of a wall, whereby, reclining at the 
top BO as to fall within its base, the thickness 
is gradually lessened according to the height. — ■ 
Milit. Diet. 

Note 108, p. 424. — It has been a favourite 
assertion with almost all the French, and some 
English writers, that the English were on 
the point of being defeated, when the Prussian 
force came up. The contrary is the truth. 
Baron Muffling has given the most explicit 
testimony, "that the battle could have afforded 
no favourable result to the enemy, even if the 
Prussians had never come up." The laurels 
of Waterloo must be divided — the British won 
the battle, the Prussians achieved and ren- 
dered available the victory. — Sir Wai.teb 
Scott. 

Note 109, p. 427. — A " cavalier" is an 
elevation of earth, situated ordinarily in the 
gorge of a bastion, bordered with a parapet, 
and cut into more or fewer embrasiirss, accord- 
ing to its capacity: — Milit. Diet. 

Note 110, p. 429.— One of the orders of 
knighthood in Russia. 

Note 111, p. 430. — See Voltaire's account. 

Note 112, p. 436. — "A kind of madness, 
in which men have the qualities of wild 
beasts." — Todd 

Note 113, p. 437. — Alluding to the manner 
of his death. 

Note 114, p. 438. — A crystal, so called 
from the spot where it is found in the North 
of Scotland. 

Note 115, p. 438. — The especial favourite 
of the Empress Catherine. 

Note 116, p. 438. — Written previously to 
his suicide. 

Note 117, p. 439. — Alluding to the cha- 
racteristic brevity of Suwarrow. 

Note 118, p. 441. — The number of serfs 
constitutes the value of an estate. 

Note 119, p. 442.— An allusion to the fall 
of Newton's apple tree. 

Note 120, p. 443. — The word is used in this 
sense on Scott's authority. 

Note 121, p. 443. — A question as to or- 
Ihography. 

Note 122, p. 444. — Alluding to his early 
recollections of Scotland. 

Note 123, p. 444 — See the History of 
Rome. Tiberius Gracchus, as Tribune. 

Note 124, p. 445. — The term is correctly 
applied to land, 



Note 125, p. 447.— Alluding to the faro* 
rite of the Empress Anne. 

Note 12(5, p. 448. — The words of Napoleon. 

Note 127, p. 448. — Kant, the originator of 
a school of philosophy. 

Note 128, p. 448.— The Legend of St. Ur- 
sula. 

Note 129, p. 449. — Referring to the monu- 
ment of the Prince. 

Note 130, p. 449. — Becket's assassination 
in the Chapel of St. Benedict, in Canterbury 
Cathedral. 

Note 131, p. 450.— The Indies. America. 

Note 132, p. 450. — See the hypothesis o« 
the Bishop of Cloyne, in " The Principles of 
Human Knowledge." 

Note 133, p. 452.— A thief of the lower 
order, who, when he is breeched by a course 
of successful depredation, dresses in the ex- 
treme of vulgar gentility, and affects a know 
ingness in his air and" conversation, which 
renders him in reality an object of ridicule.— 
Vatix. 

Note 134, p. 452. — Any well-dressed per- 
son is emphatically called a swell, or a real 
swell. — P. Egan. 

Note 135, p. 452. — A fellow who affects 
any particular habit, as swearing, dressing in 
a particular manner, taking snuff, &c, merely 
to be noticed, is said to do it out of flash.— 
Ibid. 

Note 136, p. 452.— The resort of thieves. 

Note 137, p. 452.— The plavhouse. 

Note 138, p. 452.— To humbug a fool. 

Note 139, p. 452. — Highway robbery on 
horseback. 

Note 140, p. 452. — Sport, amusement. 

Note 141, p. 452. — A loose woman who at- 
tends a thief. 

Note 142, p. 452. — Gentlemanly. 

Note 143, p. 452. — To admire, to be fond of. 

Note 144, p. 453. — A kind of medicated 
malt liquor, in which wormwood and aromatica 
are infused. — Todd. 

Note 145, p. 453. — The general use of gas 
in the streets of London dates from 1812. 

Note 146, p, 453. — The common term foi 
gaming-houses. 

Note 147, p. 455. — "Respecting." Ths 
word " anent" is Scotch. 

Note 148, p, 455. — A term applied to young 
ladies who dress up to become marriageable. 

Note 149. p. 457. — Ghost or goblin. 

Note 150, p. 458. — The tale told of Georg« 
II. concerning the will of his father. 

Note 151, p. 459. — The Congress of Verona 






544 



NOTES. 



Note 152, p. 459.— The three cantos, XII. 
XIII. and XIV. appeared at one time. 

Note 154, p. 461. — See any phrenological 
productions. 

Note 155, p. 467. — The second Lord Grey. 

Note 156, p. 467. — Alluding to the memo- 
rable close of Lord Chatham's life and politi- 
cal career. 

Note 157, p. 468.— See " Faust" of Goethe. 

Note 158, p. 472. — A transposition. 

Note 159, p. 473. — The armorial bearings 
of the religious establishment of Newstead are 
yet preserved in one of the windows. 

Note 160, p. 474. — Salvator Rosa, tne cele- 
brated painter. 

Note 161, p. 475. — In Assyria. 

Note 162, p. 476. — Siria ; there is a star 
called Sirius. 

Note 163, p. 476. — Curran and Erskine. 

Note 164, p. 4S2. — A favourite national 
dance in Spain. 

Note 165, p. 482. — Guido's most celebrated 
tr&ti* ix> ihe J? alaces of Rome, is his fresco of 



the Aurora, in the Palazzo Rospigli«L«<« 

Bryant. 

Note 166, p. 486. — A small carrion bird— 
and an allusion to the Emperor Alexander. 

Note 167, p. 486.— The Royal Palace * 
Brighton. 

Note 168, p. 488.— The two Cantos, XV. 
and XVI., appeared at one time. 

Note 169, p 490. — The celebrated picture,, 
by Raphael, represents the "Transfiguration." 

Note 170, p. 496. — The negative omitted. 

Note 171, p. 497. — The boiling spring in 
Iceland, so generally known. 

Note .172, p. 498. — Ailuding to the con- 
troversy on the subject of the celebrated Ty- 
rian purple. 

Note 173, p. 501. — Lord Byron once ima. 
gined he saw the ghost of a monk at New- 
stead. 

Note 175, p. 503. — A master-piece. 

Note 176, p. 509. — An allusion to Schroep 
fer's apparition to Prince Charles of &<uonj» 



c 






